by Janet Few
‘You’ll be wanting your supper,’ she said, taking refuge in the daily routine.
Rosie was still prattling about her own concerns, excitement oozing from her restless body.
‘Me and Lily, we’re going to the treat up at the Court tomorrow,’ she said. ‘There’s to be tea and decorations and a big tree and presents and all.’
Leonard raised his eyebrows at his father over Rosie’s bouncing head. The annual New Year’s treat, given by Mrs Hamlyn, was reserved for the Anglican Sunday scholars.
‘She’s right lad,’ acknowledged Albert. ‘They was asked special. Under the circumstances, you know.’
Leonard wondered if they would forever skirt round the issue, whether Daisy’s name would now be unmentionable. Was she to be consigned to that never-to-be-visited compartment in their consciousness, as Nelson had been? Polly was busying herself at the stove. She wielded a spoon vigorously and it clanged against the enamel pan; her rigid back discouraged interaction.
Home, Leonard sighed to himself. Six weeks ago, he had been longing for this leave, for a chance to abandon the unremitting clamour of shipboard life in favour of chilly walks with Annie along the cliff path. He could not then have anticipated the tragedy that he would find back in Clovelly. He had considered himself a man for the past seven years but he felt as if his childhood had been ripped from him, leaving him without a past that he recognised. Nothing would ever be the same again.
***
The winter’s daylight was already illuminating the room when Leonard woke on the first morning of his leave. He glanced at his brothers, still soundly sleeping, safe in the knowledge that this was not a day for work or school. In recognition of Leonard’s seniority, Mark had vacated his narrow bed to join Bertie in the larger one, leaving Leonard to sleep alone on Mark’s hard stuffed mattress in the corner. Leonard would have been happy to share the large bed, with its reassuring lumps and faded quilt but he was now the adult and adults had the privilege of a bed to themselves. He gazed at the ceiling, observing that new cracks had joined the ones that were comfortingly familiar. He puzzled over the events of the previous evening. Everyone had been wary, quiet, embarrassed perhaps. His mother had barely spoken, whilst his da uttered half sentences that trailed off and went nowhere, conveying nothing. Bertie had sat by the Bodley rigging a longline, head bowed, uncommunicative, whilst Lily and Rosie squabbled over a doll. Finding the atmosphere oppressive, Leonard had slipped out to join Mark in the scullery, where he was applying dubbin to the family’s footwear; an essential task if they were to be ready to face the scrutiny of their neighbours. Unsaid phrases had hung in the air, as if his family were oppressed by some awful secret.
Leonard knew that his day was not his own. Firstly, he would be expected to go to church. For Leonard, religious observance was no longer an integral part of his routine and was unaccompanied by deep conviction. The New Year’s Day Club Service though was not to be missed. It was always held in the church and was attended by Anglicans and Methodists alike. Members of the Rechabites and The Mariners’ Union friendly societies entertained a healthy rivalry. New Year’s Day was a chance to acknowledge your affiliation and parade to and from church, banners unfurling and in the case of the Rechabites, regalia proudly worn. Leonard was not yet a paid-up member of either friendly society, not on his wage but he and the other lads were encouraged to march with the older men and to be honest, he quite enjoyed the ritual. It was a man’s affair this, he would have to wait until later to see Annie. He’d written to her a time or two from the ship. Not as much as he should have and not as often as she had written to him. He felt bad about that but there never seemed to be the time and what could he say? She sent news of home, of trivia and domesticity. He could hardly respond with the stark realities of a merchant ship in wartime; a raw and brutal world of steam and oil, of men’s sweat, blood and if you were sure no one could see you, tears.
The Club Service was a day for best clothes, for spit and polish, for forsaking the cap for a bowler hat, should you possess such a sign of respectability. Leonard scraped his razor across his foam-laden chin cursorily. Even at twenty-one, he rarely needed to shave. It was a source of self-consciousness; that and his short stature, sparked good-natured ribbing from his shipmates. The men of the family jostled for space by the back door, grabbing scarves from pegs and tightening boot laces. Unsatisfied with Mark’s washing technique, Polly scrubbed his face with a piece of rough, red flannel before tweaking Albert’s collar and deeming them fit to be seen in public, on what was an important occasion in the Clovelly calendar.
The Mariners’ Union assembled at the Red Lion but Leonard, his father and brothers were to march with the Rechabites from the New Inn, up the back road through the Court gardens to the church. As they assembled in the street outside the inn, persistent drizzle curtailed conviviality and the men were keen to be on their way before their best clothes were spoiled. The heavy cloth flag of the Rechabites, proudly borne by young Billy Harding, was becoming sodden.
‘Where’s your da?’ Leonard asked Billy. ‘I thought he’d be here.’
‘Fishin’,’ replied Billy laconically. ‘Times ’as been ’ard while he’s been at sea. Ma had naught to give him for supper last night. We all be fair starved at home. ’Tis late for herrin’ but he’s hopeful.’
Leonard realised that matters must be bad if Will was missing the service.
‘Who’s he gone out with then?’ asked Leonard, looking around for another missing face.
‘He’s out in the Annie Salome with Frank Badcock,’ said Billy. ‘I’d be out too if I weren’t chosen to carry the banner.’
Leonard understood. Carrying the flag was a great honour. No one would miss the chance to head the parade, however hungry they were.
‘Frank’s back too then,’ stated Leonard.
‘Ay,’ said Billy, struggling to hold the flag upright in the gusts that funnelled down the street. ‘Back on leave from the Albion until the end of January. He’s hoping for his discharge from the reserve now war is done. That do in the Dardenelles took it out of him. He’s not been himself since. Just wants to be home with Mrs Badcock and the boys. Can’t be much fun being a gunner when all you want to do is fish.’
At that point, The Mariners’ Union parade, coming up from the quay, reached the New Inn. Billy hoisted the flag aloft and the Rechabites fell in behind, swelling the procession to nearly one hundred men.
‘’Tis coming in proper dirty over the Bar,’ muttered Tom Pengilly, who had been to check that his fishing boat was secure on its mooring, before joining his fellow Rechabites.
Tom was coxswain of the lifeboat, he could read the weather better than he could the Western Morning News. Leonard bent his head against the freshening south-westerly wind and began the slow march up the street. Folk were watching and waving from their doorways. Leonard was conscious that some of the spectators cast sidelong glances at his family as they walked past. There were occasional sly nudges and whispered comments, as hands shielded mouths. Was this all to do with Daisy? he wondered.
There was no sign of Annie. This was not unexpected. Granny Smale’s was one of the tea-rooms where the Rechabites would be served their refreshments after the service, so she would be laying out pasties, saffron buns and scones. Later she would be busy serving of course but he would catch a glimpse of her as the men tucked in. It would be too soon to give Annie her birthday gift, that would wait until the proper day tomorrow but he hadn’t seen her since Easter and Daisy’s passing had suddenly made it all the more important. He realised that he could take nothing for granted. It could have been Annie. Leonard was thankful that it was not but that made it seem as if he was glad that Daisy had died, so Annie could be spared. He tried to put such thoughts from his mind. The procession wound its way up the muddy path by the side of the walled garden of the Court and into the church. The wind whipped through the churchyard’s turbulent trees. Leonard averted his eyes in an attempt to avoid looking at the freshl
y dug grave that was his sister’s. In the space next to Nelson’s memorial, the bare earth cleaved a scar in the rain-drenched grass.
All Saints lacked the security and familiarity of the Methodist Chapel. Even with every seat filled it was cold and unwelcoming; the hard, wooden pews dug uncomfortably into Leonard’s spine. Sandwiched between his father and a self-important Mark, who was attending the service for the first time, Leonard shifted his body to gain himself a few extra inches of space and clutched the slightly damp, well-worn hymn book. The distinctive smell of steaming wet worsted pervaded the air. Reverend Simkin sonorously announced the first hymn. Tom Finch, during the week the rector’s gardener but proud organist on a Sunday, began to play, with more regard to volume than melody. Oh God our Help in Ages Past, comfortably recognisable to Methodists and Anglicans alike. The congregation sung with gusto, the sounds eerily deep in the absence of lighter female voices.
‘Our hope in years to come.’
Hope. There was hope then? Hope of a dawning year, hope of a newly peaceful world, hope of pursuing his relationship with Annie. Leonard took a sideways glance at his father, who was surreptitiously wiping his nose on a greying handkerchief. Did he feel hope on this dark day? Did his mother feel hope? What had she to hope for? As was traditional at the Club Service, the chosen Psalm was 107, known as the sailors’ Psalm. The men shuffled to their feet self-consciously as the minister began to utter the familiar words.
‘They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters; these see the works of the Lord and his wonders in the deep.’
Leonard wasn’t so sure about wonders. His shipboard experiences were mostly hard work, dirt, fear and a good dose of boredom. Reverend Simkin’s voice rose, as if for emphasis.
‘For He commandeth and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof.’
The congregation was aware of the wind that was gaining momentum outside, as if to reinforce the clergyman’s words. Reverend Simkin began to preach, taking as his text, “Now the Lord is that Spirit: and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.” Leonard knew he wasn’t learned like Reverend Simkin but he found himself wondering where liberty was for those of his friends who would never return from war.
The service finally over, the men clattered down the street, with much less solemnity than their upward journey. The Rechabites, mostly Methodists and non-drinkers, bundled into the New Inn, who were as happy to serve teetotallers as drinkers. Those the New Inn could not accommodate, crowded into the tea-rooms, put their wet coats on the backs of the wooden chairs, smelled Granny Smale’s flavoursome hot pasties and waited for the heavy teapots to circulate. Leonard spotted Annie and found it hard to suppress a broad grin, as he clasped his hands and bowed his head for grace. She’d blossomed while he’d been away, proper grown-up she was now, eighteen she’d be tomorrow. Here was his hope. Here was his liberty.
The members of the Mariners’ Union repaired to The Red Lion for their repast, which would be accompanied by beer, or even whisky. The Club Room had been suitably decorated with garlands of greenery and candles for the occasion. Mr Moss’ staff were on hand to serve a roast dinner, befitting of the status of those on the top table. Reverend Simkin, as an honorary member, opened with a grace that seemed overly long to many, who had, after all, already sat through a fulsome sermon. The silence to remember members lost during the previous year seemed particularly poignant, as most had not died after long lives lived to the full but had perished in the obscenity that was war. At last, steaming bowls of oxtail soup were carried up from the kitchens and set before anticipatory diners. Talk turned to the fishing, to the weather, which was turning fierce and to what the peace would bring.
Up at Granny Smale’s, pasties eaten and cakes on the table, Eli saw Oscar Abbott pat the breast pocket of his jacket and excuse himself from the corner table. Eli smiled and followed the younger man.
‘So you felt like a pipe of baccy too then?’ remarked Eli, companionably.
‘Aye,’ replied Oscar. ‘And I needed a breather. It be too hot in there. If they baint talking politics, then they be talking religion. Me, I just worry about me fishin’.’
‘Won’t be no fishing for a day or two with this weather,’ said Eli.
‘No,’ agreed Oscar. ‘Frank was a rare fool to go out today in this. I told him as much. Not that he didn’t know. But go he would. Off before daybreak to catch the tide. Still, he must be back now as the tide’s turned. Just as well, this sou-wester be proper keen.’
The men paused on the Look-out and chewed on their pipe stems, peering through the gloom and unrelenting drizzle, looking towards Bucks Mills. With the keen sight and instinct of a fisherman, Oscar was the first to spot the speck on the lurching waves.
‘Oh, God,’ he groaned, the rare blasphemy a sign of his anguish. ‘’Tis the Annie Salome, right proud of that boat Frank be. Named for his mother it were. Why the hell baint they back. They will never get into harbour now.’
Even Eli, the landsman of the two, was fully aware that Clovelly tides meant that there was a window of time during which boats could re-enter the harbour. If the fishermen missed that, they would have to remain at sea for several hours, until the state of the tide allowed them to return safely.
‘Raise the lifeboat,’ screamed Eli, his voice whipped away by the wind but Oscar was already running for the Red Lion, where many of the crew would be lifting fluffy roast potatoes to their mouths.
Eli pounded down the back steps two at a time, intent on ringing the bell outside the lifeboat house that would summon the crew. This was two of their own out there. It gave an added frisson to the rescue that was absent when they were called out to strangers.
Oscar flung back the doors to the Red Lion’s Club Room. Breathless, it took a moment for him to be heard above the hubbub of voices.
‘Boat in distress,’ he yelled, just as the bell began to sound.
Galvanised, men pushed back their chairs, eager to be amongst the crew. Even those whose days on the lifeboat were long since gone instinctively hurried for oilskins and boots, hoping to be one of the launching party.
The sound of the alarm reached the Rechabites; Leonard shuddered as his father got up to volunteer. The first to reach the boat would form the crew and several of the older men went to hold Albert back.
‘Don’t put your missus through this Alb,’ cautioned Tom Pengilly. ‘There’s plenty to man the boat, younger men and those who can be better spared right now. ’Tidden cowardice, ’tis common sense. You and the lad here can help with the launch.’
Leonard held his breath, hoping that his father would see reason but Albert’s eyes were gleaming with a sense of purpose as he prepared himself to join the rescuers. This was something Albert understood. This was something he could do. He hadn’t been able to save Daisy, he hadn’t been able to save Nelson but perhaps his life could have a meaning again if he went to the aid of these men.
By 1.30pm, the lifeboat, the Elinor Roget, affectionately known as the Elinor Rocket, was sliding on to the swirling sea and Albert was amongst the fourteen men with oars at the ready, cork lifejackets tightened. The watching crowd, apprehensive and fearful, strained to see the struggling fishing boat dipping and tossing in the distance. The lifeboat listed alarmingly as the oarsmen fought to maintain a steady path through the waves. Albert’s expression was grim, as he and the rest of the crew attempted to master the elements in a one-sided battle. The mist had thickened rapidly and obscured the Annie Salome from view.
‘The Rocket’s going to struggle to get her,’ said Eli, stating a fact that was obvious to all. ‘Frank’s only been back from war these four days past, Will’s hardly even been home. Why the hell did they go out today?’
Before long, the lifeboat was hidden from those hoisting telescopes and frantically scanning the sea for their friends, their neighbours. There was silence as Merelda Badcock and Rose Harding arrived at the lifeboat house, hands clasped, faces white and stra
ined. The women had grown up together on the quay and were well used to the tragedies of the sea. Now they were united in fearfulness, husbands in danger and brothers attempting the rescue. Billy Harding supported his mother as she pushed through the crowd. He had pleaded to be allowed in the lifeboat but his age and family ties precluded this. His three sisters, far too young to comprehend the seriousness of the situation, had been left with a neighbour. The Badcock boys glanced nervously at Billy, who they looked up to, who they had waved eagerly to only a few hours before as he had passed with the flag in the parade. The events of the morning were now an eternity ago, had dulled into distant memory.
Up the street in her cottage, Polly had heard the lifeboat bell. She realised that Albert could be one of those risking his life on the heaving sea. She knew that the cries she could hear from the cobbles meant that local men were in peril; men whose faces she knew, men whose children played with her own. This was not just another rescue. Normally, she would have been amongst the crowd on the Look-out, waiting for the safe return of the lifeboat. She would be concerned for her husband and eldest son, who could be amongst the rescuers. Her mind told her that she should join her neighbours in their anxiety but her body remained immobile. There was no danger, this was just another Club Service day, she told herself. Her menfolk would soon be home full of tales of the feast. Tragedy was held at bay.
***
The waiting villagers were well aware that the chances of the missing men returning safely to shore were slender. Fishermen scoffed at the idea of wearing lifejackets; lifejackets were not for real men. Few of them could swim, believing that, if tragedy struck, attempts to reach safety would merely prolong the inevitable. Harding wasn’t even a fisherman, he was a member of the mercantile marine. Crewing a merchant ship was very different from a small open fishing boat like a Clovelly picarooner. The watchers tried to reassure themselves, focussing on Frank Badcock’s experience, rather than the foolhardiness of setting to sea when it was clear that a storm was threatening.
