Moon Rising

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  That this man regarded me differently made me pause; in fact his chivalry was so unexpected it went straight to my heart, melting antipathy like ice in the sun. So I shook my head and said I was all right, thank you, which in truth I was. At the time I was so flattered, it never occurred to me that he might be stirred by my physical activity and that uncontrollable display of emotion.

  I had been ready to resent him, but he seemed a practical man, confident and energetic. I found I admired that almost as much as his fine grey eyes and flourishing red beard. As we started to pack up, I stole surreptitious glances and wondered who he was, what he was doing here so late in the year. The odds favoured a connection with the new coastal railway. Engineers of various persuasions frequented Whitby, and most of them were easygoing, adaptable men. Strangely, I thought him not grave enough for a lawyer or a banker, yet I discovered later that he was a barrister who managed the complicated financial affairs of a most extraordinary business. In fact when I found out all that he did, I was amazed; even more so to find that he was famous in his own world, on hobnobbing terms with the cream of London society.

  To begin with, of course, I had no idea of that. Otherwise, I would not have dared speak to him, much less flirt so outrageously.

  When he turned to me and said: ‘Fine fellows – such bravery warms the heart,’ I could not resist pointing out that the lads manning the lifeboat were fishermen by profession, each one a volunteer and fiercely proud of the fact. I could tell he was impressed; and equally that I’d made a more personal impression.

  Jack had warmed to him too, and against the battering of wind and rain was attempting to convey his thanks. There was chaos on the beach, but since he was out of plates, he could take no more photographs. Part of me wanted to stay, to see this thing through to the end; but the crew seemed to be accounted for and I could hardly bear to watch the brigantine breaking up in the surf. Anyway, Jack was packing up, intending to take everything back to his rooms rather than the studio, and clearly expecting me to lend a hand.

  Just as I was regretting our separation from the red-bearded gentleman, he relieved me of the heavy tripod and began to walk along with us. We communicated mainly by gesture as the wind whipped our words away. I gathered he’d introduced himself, but I missed his name, and then, when it was a little easier to talk in the shelter of town, Jack monopolised things by offering to forward copies of the photographs taken that afternoon. It seemed he regretted not capturing our escort too, and would have liked him to pose for the camera. But it was late, the light was going, and the studio was not set up.

  Jack and I exchanged a look of frustration. Between talk of tides and flooding, we tried to persuade the gentleman to call by for a sitting the following day, but unfortunately he had an early start next morning. It became clear, however, that he thought me Jack Louvain’s paid assistant. Catching Jack’s cautionary smile I said nothing, just found myself thankful for the storm. I suppose an old serge gown looks not much different from a good one when both are damp and mud-spattered; and for those who must go out, it was the kind of day when thick plaid shawls were infinitely preferable to fancy hats.

  Once we reached Jack’s lodgings and the equipment was safely installed, he used the excuse of the hour and the weather to usher me home. I was not displeased by the suggestion, just annoyed when, in the very next breath, he offered our companion a tot of whisky as a restorative. If anyone deserved warmth and restoration, I thought, it was me: I’d been working hard since early morning. But unattached young women were not encouraged to drink whisky with bachelor gentlemen in the privacy of their rooms.

  With as much grace as I could muster I wished them both good-night and turned to leave. A moment later I was struggling to restrain a broad grin as our new acquaintance refused Jack’s invitation and offered to walk along with me as far as his hotel. I had great difficulty in affecting a casual mien as we left Jack standing in the doorway and made our way together down the street.

  Three

  I half expected him to be staying at the Royal Hotel with its panoramic views, and was a little disappointed to find him at a more modest establishment nearby. Shouting against the wind, he told me he was on business, visiting a number of theatres in northern parts, with the prospect of a tour in mind. What kind of a tour escaped me, so I commiserated on the weather instead. At that he simply laughed and said it was a bonus – he loved the excitement and exhilaration of a storm.

  Blown sideways by a sudden gust, I laughed and nodded while trying to restrain my skirts from flying above my knees. He watched me and grinned like a schoolboy.

  ‘I always think there’s nothing quite like a good blow to banish megrims and rouse the blood. What say you, Miss Sterne? Dangerous but thrilling, don’t you agree?’

  I did indeed and laughed again. Many a time had I thrilled to pounding waves, skipped over salt-sprayed rocks, and run along the cliffs in a mad March gale, drunk with freedom and a sense of danger; but whether my heart raced in response to the idea or the look in his eye I was not entirely sure. I would have liked to detain him in order to find out, but the evening was closing in, black clouds were scudding over the abbey, and a distant awareness told me I was cold and hungry and should go home.

  As I began a reluctant farewell, there came an explosion from the coastguard station, followed by the screeching and clattering of gulls. A moment later we saw the fierce red glitter of stars hundreds of feet above, and the slow fall of warning lights to call the lifeboatmen back to duty.

  ‘What is it?’ he demanded. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Another ship,’ I said, starting to run, and he was with me at once. Dashing to a vantage point above the Battery, we joined a growing crowd. Looking across the harbour and out to sea, it was hard to see anything clearly beyond the black mass of the east cliff and a line of shifting white turbulence below. Then the clouds broke on a clear patch of sky, long enough to show something dark amidst the rising fog of spume and spray. Just beyond the foot of the east cliff, a small vessel was struggling against the mountainous waves, masts jerking and falling in a seemingly hopeless fight for survival. It was like watching a puny child beating against the knees of a towering Goliath.

  Appearing and disappearing with each mighty surge, it seemed the tiny ship was doomed. ‘She’ll never make it...’ Hands clenched, I whispered a prayer for those aboard. ‘Please God, don’t let her be forced onto the Scaur...’

  My companion leaned close. ‘Are they trying to make the harbour? They seem to be heading further out?’

  ‘Yes, yes – the current’s against them,’ I shouted, ‘it runs down the coast – across the harbour mouth. To make the turn, they have to reach a point beyond the pier ends. But over there,’ I pointed to the jagged face of the east cliff, ‘a shelf of rock juts out into the sea. That’s the Scaur...’ I shook my head, picturing the wrecks, fearing another.

  People were watching from every vantage point, more gathering along the harbour. The tension was palpable. Through driving mist and spray we saw the second lifeboat make ready for action. It was almost dark now, and we could barely see the ship as she struggled to gain distance from the rocks. Time after time we thought she was lost; but her master had both skill and daring. It seemed an impossible manoeuvre, but suddenly, with all sail set, he brought his vessel round. A moment later the schooner was racing before the storm, leaping the seething white waters, diving through waves and spray to gain the safety of the piers.

  It was a mad moment as she came through. After such prolonged and desperate suspense, the muttered urgings of the crowd exploded in a frenzy of yells and cheers that almost drowned the voice of the storm. I jumped up and down; my companion waved his hat, both of us yelling like lunatics before he swept me off my feet and swung me round.

  Laughing and giddy, I clung to him as he set me down. It was a moment in which almost anything might have happened – laughter, a breathless kiss, or even a gentlemanly apology. The tension was broken by a collec
tive moan of despair. The captain had thought his danger past as he gained the protection of the piers; he lowered sail too soon, lost steerage, and the schooner was rapidly driven forward onto the sands of Collier’s Hope.

  Helpless, we stood like statues, picturing the inevitable before it happened. Anchors were dropped to no avail. As she struck, groans from the crowd echoed the grinding, cracking noise of the grounding ship. All around us were despairing cries and anguished faces, a muttering of belated wisdoms, a shaking of heads as people started to move away.

  ‘I expect the poor devils will be all right?’

  ‘Yes, I expect so.’ I said miserably, watching scurrying figures and a gathering of lights amidst the gloom on the far side. ‘Nothing much worse than a dunking.’

  His hand, warm at my waist, slid away, and I was suddenly conscious of a coldness there, giving the coming night a keener edge. I turned with a regretful smile; the spectacle was over, there was no further reason for him to stay. But instead of the expected good-night, he said urgently: ‘In that case, let’s go across there and see those brave fellows – make sure they’re all right.’

  So that was what we did, hurrying down to the harbour and across the bridge to the east side. When we reached Tate Hill pier there was quite a crowd. The crew were only then being brought ashore, staggering on terra firma after several days and nights of storm-tossed seas. One turned aside to be violently sick against the pier wall. Someone said it was the captain, but in the darkness it was hard to tell one from another.

  They were foreign – Russians, I think – and it’s hard to say how much of English they understood; nevertheless, there were plenty of bystanders from nearby hostelries, all eager to offer congratulations and commiserations in equal measure.

  My companion was bright-eyed as we moved down the pier, wanting to see the ship, to know what she was carrying, by what route and from which ports. I had the feeling that if he could have gone aboard the Dmitry he would have; and, in spite of their trials and the shipwreck, he even seemed envious of the Russian crew. He certainly admired them.

  After all the drama, most of Whitby was in a celebratory mood. I felt it too; but somehow I had not expected the same from a well-travelled stranger. That he was taken up by these local events impressed me. I knew nothing of him, nor he of me, and yet in the last few hours we had forged a most unlikely and unexpected bond.

  As the bedraggled sailors were ushered through an open doorway into the warm and smoky taproom of the Duke of York, we stood in a sheltered corner across the way, for a while just watching and listening. Then, from the gathering darkness beyond, audible once the babble of voices ceased, came the hiss and boom of the tide as it worked against the stranded ship. The sound made me shiver.

  ‘We should move,’ he said then, tightening his arm around me. A moment later, noticing the Church Stairs curving up and away to the right, he wanted to know where they led.

  ‘The graveyard,’ I said, ‘and the abbey.’

  All at once, excitement was rekindled. ‘Really? I must see it...’

  I knew what it would be like up there and tried to dissuade him. In those conditions it was mad, but when he headed for the steps I had to follow. I couldn’t let a stranger out on the east cliff alone.

  Between Tate Hill and the parish church were 199 broad stone steps sweeping up the cliff, the first few yards easy until the wind took hold. Until each grip on the iron rail became a hand-over-hand haul to the top.

  The moon appeared as we crested the cliff, round and full, dazzling between racing banks of cloud. As the gale whipped and tore at my heavy serge gown, it was like being punched and beaten, almost impossible to breathe. My companion battled on, refusing to accept defeat. Ahead loomed the crumbling skeleton of the abbey, while before it the squat little church clung to the cliff like a gull with wings outstretched. In scudding moonlight the surrounding graves seemed to be moving, marching out like militia to do battle with the sea. An unnerving sight, as though the whole cliff was on the move.

  Terrified, I clung for safety to one of the stones, while he advanced without me, leaning into the wind. ‘We should go back!’ I yelled, summoning all the puny force at my disposal. Heedless, thinking himself safe in the shelter of the church, he was gazing up at the ruins. But not for long. A moment later, a particularly ferocious gust made him grab at an upright; after that he turned and made his way back to me. Despite the danger he was laughing, enjoying the buffeting like a child’s game, where I was dizzy with the racing moonlight and eager to get back to safer ground.

  ‘Magnificent!’ he shouted on reaching my side. ‘What a place!’

  For a long moment he gazed at the abbey’s Gothic silhouette before turning back to me. Taking pity at last, he clamped me to his side as we headed for the steps.

  Going down was worse than coming up, although he kept me safe enough. I don’t know who was more breathless by the time we reached the foot, but by the Duke of York we paused to recover ourselves. Releasing my shawl from its secure knot, I draped its heavy folds around my head and shoulders, while my companion rescued his soft-brimmed hat from inside his coat. With a grin he knocked it back into shape, wedged it firmly on his head, and took my arm again.

  ‘I think we should eat,’ he said, as though the matter had been decided. ‘But not here – the landlord will be too taken up with his unexpected guests. Do you know of a good place nearby?’

  Briefly, cautions instilled by my late grandmother sprang to mind, and were overcome at once by thoughts of a hot meal. With her upright stoicism, no doubt she would have been appalled by such weakness, but I was too hungry to refuse. Besides, I reminded myself, I was supposed to be a free spirit and could now please myself. Justified, I led the way down Kirkgate.

  The White Horse advertised good stabling and a good table. It was one of those old-fashioned hotels still retaining an air of the last century with its bare boards and well-scrubbed aspect. As I slipped off my shawl and made an attempt to pin back damp, unruly hanks of curls, my companion grinned. Smoothing his own hair, he then reached out to mine.

  ‘Allow me,’ he said, gently releasing the pins I’d been trying to secure. ‘It will dry more easily this way.’

  With ease, and all in a moment, he arranged my hair loosely around my shoulders, took my shawl and my arm as though I were a society lady, and led me into the saloon bar. His demeanour was so controlled, so formal as he ordered drinks and enquired about food, I could scarcely credit his impulsiveness earlier. Wondering whether I’d imagined that madness on the cliff, I felt completely out of my depth. Fortunately the dining room was so lacking in frills it reminded me of my grandmother’s house, and, despite my workaday clothes, I managed to relax.

  In my companion’s eyes it might have seemed rather bare and comfortless, but his eyes lit up when I told him the novelist Charles Dickens had stayed there, and had no doubt eaten in this very room. From then on our conversation continued with remarkable ease, as though we were not strangers at all, but old acquaintances delighted to meet again after too long apart.

  The fire was drawing well, the place was warm, and the food when it came was heartening and plentiful. Being a stranger to the area, he ordered the fried fish which I’m sure was good, but I was too familiar with fish soup, fish pie, fish baked, smoked and boiled, to want so much as a smell of it on my plate. I asked for the cold roast meats, served with piping-hot fried potatoes and lots of mustard, and barely spoke above a yes or a no until it was finished.

  Four

  Looking back from a distance of more than two decades, I see myself at that time as a rather wilful but inexperienced girl, lapping up the admiration of a sophisticated older man. He was not trying to seduce me, not then; he was simply enjoying my company, my wide-eyed attention, and his own ability to impress. And I was impressed, not so much by his traveller’s tales of America and the Continent – living in Whitby, cheek by jowl with seafarers, I was used to those – but by his life in London, and his work
with the Lyceum Theatre Company.

  At first, when he mentioned the Lyceum, I thought he meant some kind of college or institute; I thought he was a schoolmaster. Sensing my confusion, he explained, and when I blushed he wanted to know why; whereupon we both laughed at my mistake, the more so every time we met each other’s eyes. He said he would tell Irving, and even though the name meant nothing to me then, I begged him not to reveal my ignorance.

  ‘But your comment is strangely apt,’ he smiled. ‘I often feel like a poor schoolmaster in charge of a class of unruly children. If only I could threaten them all with the cane – Irving, particularly!’

  That made me smile, but if I was too embarrassed to ask my companion’s name – I addressed him as ‘sir’ – I soon discovered that he was the Lyceum’s business manager, dealing with finance, arranging theatrical tours and publicity, deciphering contracts as well as drawing them up. Even then, when my experience of the world was so limited, I grasped enough to wonder how one man could fulfil such duties, especially when they seemed to include writing speeches and reshaping plays for production. But he enjoyed that, he said; writing had always been something of a hobby, and involvement in the creative side compensated for the drier, more disciplined world of finance.

  I’d been to amateur concerts and watched pierrots on the beach, but in those days the theatre meant little to me. I recognised a few actors and actresses, whose faces appeared regularly in printed advertisements, but they were like beings from another world; and to find myself in company with a man who inhabited that world seemed strangely unreal. Nevertheless, it explained to me why Jack Louvain had looked so impressed; why he was so keen to have the stranger’s photograph. And when I discovered that the Lyceum in London was renowned not only for its drama, but for its unique and innovative sets, I paid special attention in order to relate everything back to Jack.