The Kingdom by the Sea

by Robert Westall

  And then there was a warm damp pressure on his left cheek. He knew that rain was coming. But there was nowhere to run to. No upturned boats, no abandoned sheds, not even a shallow cave in the low cliff. Nothing. He tried to hurry in the dark, but that just meant he tripped up more often.

  The stars were wiped out one by one, starting with the ones in the west. When half the stars were gone, the first huge dollop of rain smacked him in the face.

  He stood, for a moment, full of rage and despair.

  “No,” he shouted. “Oh, no.” But there was no one to hear, no one to help. All he could do was press on.

  The dollops came more often, and then they came in a drumming roar on the sand. It was like having a hose-pipe turned on you. His hair settled in streaks across his eyes, dribbling slightly salty water straight into his mouth. The water began to get inside the collar of his raincoat, then it ran down his back. It broke in through the raincoat at his shoulders, where the strap of the blankets pressed, making his goose-fleshed skin crawl and shudder. Soon it was running down his legs, and sloshing in his shoes, and everything was sodden. There came a time when he gaspingly knew that he couldn’t get any wetter. His clothes began to chafe his flesh like wet ropes; the handle of the attachè case grew too slippery to hold, so he kept on dropping it. He knew the blankets must be getting sodden too, for they grew heavier and heavier, and the strap cut more and more.

  Don just plodded along beside him, occasionally shaking himself to get the water out of his coat.

  Everything was melting away. All his plans, all his hopes, all his sense. Except a stubborn voice that went on telling him to keep going, keep going…

  He would have walked straight past the place in his misery; he had given up looking around, the rain beat in his eyes too much. But the dog stopped, and looked left, and sniffed. So Harry looked too.

  There was a dip in the low cliff, a sheltered tiny cove with a little leaping stream, and what looked like three or four small abandoned railway carriages, without their wheels, dotted about. There were no lights in them; no smoke coming from their chimneys. The night sky showed through their big windows.

  A last savage burst of energy drove him up the bank of the stream, slipping and slithering. His foot went into the stream and didn’t feel any wetter, though the mud on the bottom sucked at his shoe treacherously, and he almost lost it. Then he was in the lee of the first carriage; the rain stopped battering in his face, and he came to his senses.

  He tried a door on the first carriage, but it was locked. He tried all that carriage’s doors; they were all locked. But he could see, through the carriage windows, tantalising objects in the gloom. Beds and heaps of blankets, a cast iron stove, a box of knives and forks.

  He ran across and tried the next carriage. That was locked too. But he saw deckchairs piled, and aluminium pots and pans on a paraffin stove, even a pile of foodtins in an open cupboard. There was shelter in there, and dry blankets and food. So close. Only a sheet of glass away.

  He crossed to the third carriage, and the wind and rain hit him with renewed ferocity, so he staggered and fell down. His mind was a roaring turmoil. He would die… the dog would die. They had a right to live… as much right as these people who owned these holiday railway carriages. They had another home somewhere. They weren’t out in this storm. He made up his mind he would smash the glass on the last carriage, if it was locked.

  The door opened as he turned the handle. He splashed back for his bundles.

  “Come on, boy!”

  The dog needed no second telling. They were out of the storm with the door shut in a flash. The storm was only screaming round the corners of the carriage, and the rain lashing harmlessly against the great windows, and drumming on the roof. The whole place smelt musty, as if nobody had lived there for a long time.

  There was a great brass paraffin lamp, hanging from the ceiling. He knew the sort; his gran had once had one just like it. He swung it; plenty of paraffin glugged inside. He lifted out the glass funnel carefully, because he was shivering all over. Remembered which way to turn the little brass wheels, so the wicks came up, instead of vanishing down inside.

  He groped the attachè case open, and felt for the matches he’d had so long ago. They were still dry; it was a good attachè case. But his hands were wet, and that might spoil the matches. He found something in the dark to dry them on; it took a long time to dry them; the rain seemed to have soaked right inside them, as if they were a sodden dishcloth.

  A golden light sprang up and lit the carriage. And he immediately panicked about the blackout. But there were thick, thick curtains. He felt their dusty dryness as he drew them. Safe.

  It was then he saw the piece of writing, propped up against a flower vase on the little table. It was on a piece of thick white cardboard, probably cut from a shoebox. It said,

  To the lost traveller.

  You are welcome here, friend. The door is not locked. Sleep if you wish. Eat what you need. We are glad that, even in wartime, we could leave you something. Go on your way in the morning refreshed. Please leave things as you found them for the next person in need. Pay if you can for what you have had, hut if you cannot, do not worry. Pray for us, as we will pray for you.

  Jack, Harriet, Susan and Shirley.

  PS. We hope you will be as happy here as we have always been.

  PPS. Spare paraffin in the can outside.

  There was a framed photograph by the side of the note, propped up on its little leg at the back. It was of a vicar in his dog-collar and his wife and two little girls. They were all smiling at the camera, in a broad friendly way. They looked nice.

  Harry stared around. The carriage was just one big room, except for a plank wall with a door at one end; beyond the door was a little table with an enamel bowl and ewer, and a lot of hooks on the wall. All the railway seats were gone; but there was a wood-stove with paper and sticks and coal, a big table with plates, easy chair and bunk-beds made up with sheets.

  It was weird, like Goldilocks in the house of the three bears. He was almost afraid to touch anything, except the family kept smiling at him from the photograph, as if urging him on.

  A big shiver warned him to get out of his sopping clothes; besides, they were dripping on the floor, making puddles. He tossed them down in the enamel basin and wrapped himself in a brown blanket. After that, there was the dog to dry, the stove to light, a huge tin of baked beans to open and share. So much to do, and he was so weary. But at last he could crawl into a bunk, leaving all his wet things to steam on chairs round the glowing stove. It was on the verge of sleep that he remembered the bargain he had struck.

  “Please, God, keep Jack, Harriet, Susan and Shirley safe.”

  He had a fleeting image of their smiling faces as he lay with his eyes shut.

  Then he had an image of his own house bombed flat, smelling of gas and burning with little low blue flames.

  God didn’t seem to have anything to say in reply.

  But then God, in Harry’s experience, never had.

  He stayed two days; two days of endless rain. He stayed warm and snug. He got everything nice and dry, though his trousers seemed to have shrunk a bit. His old mates would’ve said they were flying at half-mast.

  He ate the food; Spam, corned beef and endless baked beans. Even tinned peaches, which he hated and the dog wouldn’t touch. He felt very guilty, every tin he ate, but what could he do? Every tin he opened, he looked at the family for reassurance. They went on smiling at him. He seemed to get to know them very well. He read all the girls’ comics. The little one must have read Puck. The eldest seemed to like boys’ comics, like Hotspur and Adventure. The mother had read Woman’s Weekly, but all the vicar had left behind was a big black Bible and a copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress. By the second afternoon he had read everything else, and was reduced to looking up the dirty bits in the Bible, where so-and-so lay with so-and-so. Then he looked at the ever-smiling family on the table, and felt deeply ashamed.

/>   He found The Pilgrim’s Progress not much easier. But there was one bit that took his fancy.

  “I saw a man clothed with rags… with his face from his own house… and a book in his hand and a great burden on his back. I looked and I saw him open the book and read therein; and as he read, he wept and trembled… and broke out with a lamentable cry saying, ‘What shall I do?’”

  That was his own state really, wasn’t it? It was a slight comfort to realise people had been in this kind of jam before; that there was a name for it.

  “I’m a pilgrim,” he said out loud, liking the word. “Pilgrim.”

  The third morning dawned bright and clear. He got up the moment he wakened, the moment he realised the rain had stopped. He flung back the curtains, and the old blue sky was back, horizon to horizon. There was a mist out to sea, that meant it was going to be a really hot day. The dog pleaded urgently to go out, relieved itself, then began running madly in circles round the carriages. It was ready for the road, and so was he. But he left with care; piled his bags outside first, then cleaned out the stove, made the bed, swept and dusted. He thought it looked pretty good; just like it had been, when he arrived. He wrote a note saying, “Thank you. A pilgrim.” He hovered, undecided whether to leave a ten-shilling note under the photograph, or a pound. In the end he settled for a pound, he had eaten an awful lot, and it was on the ration.

  He was just picking up the attachè case, when he saw the old man coming up from the beach. He was not in the least afraid of the old man. He had silver hair, and walked painfully with a stick. A puff of wind would have blown him away. It would be hours before the old man could get to the police…

  “Morning,” said the old man, coming up to the door. “That’s a grand dog you’ve got.” The old man’s eyes were very sharp. Took in Harry’s face, his clothes, his luggage, and the pound note on the table, all in one glance. “Thanks for leaving the pound note.”

  “I was here two days an’ three nights,” said Harry. “We ate an awful lot…”

  “That’s all right, son. And you left the place nice too. Good lad.” There was such… gratitude in the old man’s voice that Harry grew bold.

  “Is this your railway carriage?”

  “No. It was my lad’s.”

  “The vicar? Jack?”

  “Aye, Jack. God rest him!”

  “Is… is he dead?” Harry’s voice rose to a squeak he couldn’t control.

  “Aye. And his missus. And the bairns. In the bombing at Newcastle. A year gone. They all went together. One little bomb on the vicarage. The houses each side were scarce touched.”

  “But… but…” Harry stared round the carriage. “They seemed so…” He couldn’t get it out.

  “Alive? Aye, they’re here. If they’re anywhere. That’s why I keep the place on. They bought it to come and be near me, on their holidays. They were that happy here. Always laughing.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Harry.

  The old man put his hand on Harry’s arm. “Don’t be sorry, son. Ye’re the first customer we’ve had. Aah used to reckon they were mad, leaving the door unlocked when they weren’t here, an’ that notice on the table. But Jack always said that anyone of ill-will could soon smash a door or a window open, and he’d be in a rage by the time he’d got inside. Whereas if he was welcomed, he’d respect the place… ye’ve proved my Jack was right after all, son. Thank you. It gives me the strength to go on wi’ things, here. God bless you, whoever you are.” Tears stood out in his old eyes. “What’s your name, son? I’m going to write it in the book - the first name.”

  “Harry Baguely.”

  “And might I ask where you’re headed?” asked the old man, very gently.

  “Just… up the coast,” said Harry. “I’m a pilgrim.”

  “Oh, ye’re gannin to Holy Island - Lindisfarne?”

  “Yes,” said Harry. Though he hadn’t decided till that very moment. Now, somehow, he had to go to Lindisfarne.

  “God bless you, Harry Baguley” said the old man. “You and your dog.”

  Tears grew in Harry’s own eyes. He suddenly felt he wanted to tell the old man everything about the bombing. It was like a great weight of water inside him, held back by a thin, thin dam. But the old man had enough troubles of his own. And the old man was happy now, in a way. Harry couldn’t bear to spoil his happiness, to let all the misery inside himself loose in the world.

  “Tara,” he said abruptly, before he broke down. Shouldered his blankets, picked up his case and went.

  But he turned and waved, before he was out of sight. The old man was sitting on the step of the carriage, lighting his pipe. He waved back.

  Chapter Eight

  The light was failing as they came off the rocks and into sight of Druridge Bay.

  That was always the worst time, when the light failed. It was all right in the morning, when the sun was shining and the whole day lay ahead. It was nice to doze and watch the dog swimming, in the heat of the noonday sun. But getting dark had always been home-time, draw the curtains and wait for Dad to come from work time. The time Mam began to cook supper.

  Druridge Bay was five miles of sand-dunes, low cliffs and empty sand. Not a thing stirred in the whole long curve of it. Five weary miles of nothing. And he had nothing to eat again. He stared around bleakly. Out to sea, some buoys and floats bobbed meaninglessly. Druridge Bay, Dad once said, was a bombing range for the RAF, simply because nobody ever went there. He wondered wearily whether a plane would appear and drop a bomb on him and the dog; it would solve a lot of problems.

  But the dog seemed to have found something, under the low, crumbling mud-coloured cliff. The dog was circling and barking. He put on a weary spurt to catch up.

  The dog was barking at a very odd building, tucked under the cliff. A long box of a building, like a sagging shed. Fisherman’s hut? But surely even the poorest fisherman could do better than this? It was a shed made of patches. Patches of withered plank, of tins hammered flat and nailed on. Patches of corrugated iron, patches of old lino with the pattern still on it. But all painted with black tar, against the wind and rain. And at the far end, a thin stovepipe chimney, from which came smoke and… the smell of cooking fish. It must be the smell of the cooking that was making the dog bark.

  He was still about fifty yards away, when a door in the patchwork swung open, and a figure emerged and flung a piece of what looked like wood at the dog. It flew straight and true, and hit the dog on the backside. Don gave a yelp, and fled to a safe distance.

  “Hey,” shouted Harry. “That’s my dog.”

  The figure turned. It was very tall and remarkably thin, with pale bare feet, and trousers that finished raggedly halfway up its legs. All in black it was, with a long thin neck and long thin face, and hair that glinted silver in the last of the light. It looked eerie, like a ghost or a scarecrow. But it said, in a pettish voice, “You should keep your dog under better control then!”

  “It’s cos he’s hungry.”

  “You shouldn’t keep a dog if you can’t afford to feed it.”

  It was a voice like a scolding old granny’s, when she comes to her front door to tell you not to make so much noise playing. But it looked like a man. His hair was cut all ragged behind, and his face was so old, even the wrinkles had wrinkles. But he moved as quick as a kid, a nervous kid.

  “What’s yer name?”

  “Harry Baguley.” There was no harm in telling this oddball. Nobody would ever believe what he said.

  “And what you doin’ round here at this time o’ night, Harry Baguley? If your parents had any sense you’d be in bed, or doin’ your homework.”

  “They’re dead,” said Harry. “Killed in the bombing.” This bloke was so weird, you really could tell him anything.

  “So you’re an orphan?” said the figure. “So am I. I suppose you’d better come in then.”

  Harry hesitated; remembered Dad’s warning about going with strangers. But this bloke sounded reluctant, as if he didn’t
want to ask Harry in really. As if he didn’t want to be bothered, but he felt it was his duty.

  “Can I bring the dog in?”

  “If it shuts up, and minds its manners.”

  It was dark inside the strange hut. There was only the light of the burning stove, which appeared to be cut out of a big thick oil drum, and a couple of lighted wicks which floated in a yellow liquid, in rusty tin cans. The smell of burning rotten fish was overpowering. Harry felt a bit sick.

  “Sit down.” The man pointed to an unpainted keg, stamped “Danish butter”. Harry sat, and stared round. The walls were hung with all kinds of things. Three ship’s lifebelts, a huge unlit ship’s lantern, the broken rudder of a fishing boat, rusty saws and hammers. The man followed Harry’s eyes.

  “All from the sea,” he said, with a strange pride. “All from the sea. I am an orphan, but the sea is my father and my mother.”

  Don began nosing around.

  “Keep that dog still, or you’ll have to go,” shouted the man suddenly and shrilly Harry, hearing a sudden patter of rain on the roof, grabbed Don’s collar, and said carefully, “What’s your name?”

  “Joseph Kielty. Everybody knows me round here, for miles around. I used to be a clerk at Smith’s Dock, afore my mother died, God rest her. Then I came here. Do you want some fish stew?”

  “Yes, please,” said Harry. He didn’t know which was worse, feeling ravenous, or feeling sick from the smell of burning fish. But when the fish stew was ladled out of a pot on the stove, and given to him with an incredibly battered spoon, it tasted marvellous. Don sniffed at the bowl hungrily, hopefully.

  “Have you got something for my dog?” asked Harry cautiously.

  “Does he eat raw fish?”

  “He’ll eat anything.”

  The man produced a large whole fish from somewhere, and lured the dog outside with it, and slammed the door. “I’m not having him making a mess in here.”