The Unforgiving Sea (The Searight Saga Book 2) | Paperback

Delivery usually takes anything from 7 to 14 days.

Prologue

A Village in Devon, Southern England, August 1944


I never felt so relieved to be home. I quickly checked every room, opening curtains, disturbing dust, upstairs and down, taking in the familiar and the forgotten. I opened several windows in an attempt to rid the house of the pervading odour of neglect. I stood at the foot of the stairs and gripped the bannister and, as if suddenly remembering where I was, felt stupidly happy. It was all too much, too soon. I had to sit down for a moment on the bottom stair. I never thought I’d see home again. Standing up, I looked at myself in the hallway mirror. My skin was brown as a nut. God, I’d aged. What did I expect? But from tonight, I was starting a new life, a quieter, more peaceful existence. I’d had enough adventure to last a lifetime. All that was behind me now.
I called for Angie, my little Jack Russell. Mr Jenkins, the headmaster at the village primary school, had been looking after her during my long absence. She came to me, wagging her tail. She hadn’t forgotten me. I picked her up and ruffled her coarse fur and, laughing, turned my face away as she tried to lick me. Jenkins had been my first visitor, earlier in the afternoon, the dog at his feet. He shook my hand firmly and welcomed me home. He seemed sorry to have to return Angie to me. My next visitor, within minutes of Jenkins leaving, was Joe Hamilton, the village shopkeeper, wearing his habitual apron and bearing a basket of foodstuffs to ‘keep me going’. How kind. I thanked him profusely. I’ll have to settle up with him soon.
The third person to call was June Parker. She almost staggered back on seeing me. I could see the thought in her eyes – how much I’d changed. Recovering, she kissed me on the cheek and hovered at my doorway declining my offer to come in. ‘You’re to go to the pub tonight, Robert,’ she said in a conspiratorial tone. ‘The White Ship, but no earlier than eight o’clock, you hear?’
‘Sounds intriguing.’
The wife of a soldier, she wore a long dark coat despite the warmth of the afternoon sun and lipstick of the brightest red, her blonde hair curled at the back.
‘You’ll find out. Come and pick me up at eight and we’ll go together. That way I can keep an eye on you. Pleased to be back?’
‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am.’
‘And we’re all very pleased to have you back. Your skin; it’s so…’
‘Dark?’
‘It must have been awful.’
I merely smiled. She understood. She bid me goodbye and left and I realised I should have asked after her husband.
After June had gone, I went up to my bedroom, the dog overtaking me on the stairs. The room was sparse – pastel flowery wallpaper, just the single bed, an ugly wardrobe, a bedside table. I never had a chance to impose my stamp on it. Above a dresser was a pleasant moorland painting depicting Highland cattle with their long horns. And above the bed, a wooden crucifix supporting a metal figurine of Christ, a leftover from the previous occupants. I unhitched it off the wall and noticed the shadow of the cross left in its wake on the wallpaper. Sitting on the bed with Angie lying behind me, I studied it. It was heavy but crudely produced, the extended arms overly long, his nailed hands out of proportion with the rest of him. It was cheap. And ugly. The idea of his contorted face staring down at me every morning was unnerving. I hid it in the top draw of the bedside table.
I stretched the fingers of my right hand and slid the gold band off my thumb. It had lost none of its shine in the intervening weeks. I tossed it around in my palm. With this ring, I’d made a promise. To deliver it to a woman. A woman who lived in the village. It was the last thing my brother had asked me to do. To deliver this ring. Tomorrow. I placed it in the bedside table drawer – next to the crucifix.
It was almost eight now. Having washed and shaved and changed my clothes, I was ready to go. I wore a navy blue jacket and a plain dark green tie. I swept the dashes of Angie’s white fur from my trousers and checked myself in the mirror one more time. Yes, I thought, I looked fine. It was time to reacquaint myself with the ordinary world encapsulated in this tiny Devonian village, a world I often thought I’d never see again. I patted Angie, promising her I wouldn’t be too long.
*

The front door of this little house opens straight onto the village square. In front of me, at the opposite end of the square, the church, too big, I always thought, for a village this size. The air was still warm, the last hints of sun fading away leaving long shadows. A small group of children were playing around the bus shelter, most of them on bikes, cycling between the parked cars. The church clock chimed eight as I strolled down the lane towards June’s. I felt almost giddy with contentment. A tractor passed me from the opposite direction, the farmer waving at me enthusiastically. I could feel my shoulders relax as I breathed in the country air, the smell of freshly-cut grass drifting in on the breeze. I slowed down and listened to the silence. Somewhere, from within one of the houses, a peal of laughter; the rumble of the tractor fading into the distance; the children playing; a swallow whooshing overhead. How I’d become accustomed to silence when, for days on end, I lived in a world without sound, and how awful and oppressive it felt, the menace of the quiet. But not this, this was heaven-sent and I felt pathetically grateful for it. Nothing mattered to me now. I was twenty-three years old. I had my whole future to worry about but none of it mattered. I refused to be hurried, things would fall into place bit by bit. At this point, I had only the one task, a simple one but a difficult one… to deliver the ring.
*

I knocked on June’s door. It opened and I was momentarily taken aback. Standing in front of me was a girl of about sixteen dressed in a swirling yellow dress with small red spots. For a moment, I thought I’d come to the wrong house but then I remembered – this was Abigail, June’s daughter and only child. The last time I saw her she was still a little girl. Not now.
‘Abigail?’
‘Mum will be down in a minute.’
I nodded and waited on the doorstep, half expecting to be invited in. Instead, we stood in awkward silence. ‘Enjoying your summer holidays?’
‘It’s all right.’
‘And erm, how’s your father?’
Her eyes scanned the village square behind me. ‘Yeah, he’ll be back in a few days.’
Fortunately, the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs relieved both of us from further conversation. ‘Robert, you look nice,’ said June, appearing behind her daughter.
‘And you, June, you look lovely.’ She did – wearing an attractive mauve dress, her hair loose at her shoulders decorated with a yellow bow.
‘Abigail, you could have asked Robert in, poor chap.’ Abigail stepped back into the house and disappeared up the stairs. ‘She’s expecting Dan, her boyfriend,’ said June in hushed tones.
‘Dan? I don’t remember a Dan.’
‘From the next village. Shall we go then?’
As we walked the short distance to the pub, I asked about her husband, making up for my earlier lack of etiquette.
‘He’s out in Italy. But he’s got a week’s leave – the first since he left two years ago.’
‘You haven’t seen him in that long? You must be looking forward to his return.’
‘Of course.’ She leant towards me as we walked. ‘I’m a little nervous about it, if truth be told. I’ve got so used to him not being around. Sounds awful, I know.’
I remembered Phil Parker all too well. I too wouldn’t relish his return.
We reached the White Ship and I noticed how dark it was and how quiet it seemed from the outside. ‘Is it open?’ I asked.
‘Why wouldn’t it be? Come.’ To my surprise, she took my hand. She pushed open the heavy doors. Following her in, I found the place to be in complete darkness. It was still light outside but someone had closed all the curtains. I knew what was coming next…
June, standing behind me, slid her arm around my waist and said, ‘Welcome home, Robert.’
The noise of cheering and applause broke upon my senses. Lights came on, curtains drawn back, and there, in front of me, a gathering of smiling faces and raised glasses. Hanging high from the wall behind, a banner that read Welcome home!! I stood, open-mouthed. Although I may have anticipated this seconds before, I was still taken aback. June laughed out loud, ‘Oh, Robert, your face.’ Someone on the piano slammed down a couple of introductory chords then started playing For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow. Everyone in the pub, it seemed, joined in while I stood there, abashed, trying to hold back the tears, my heart brimming with pride.
‘Get that down yer,’ said Pearce, the village blacksmith, thrusting a pint of something in my hand.
As the music came to an end, Mr Jenkins stepped out of the crowd, offering his hand, beaming. ‘Robert, dear man, on behalf of the village, I’d like to formally welcome you back home.’ He held my hand, his other on my shoulder, a half-smile on his lips and I wanted to weep.
My audience cheered and again raised their glasses. ‘Aye, aye. Cheers,’ came the shouts.
I lifted my glass and took a gulp. Ale. Foul stuff. They wanted me to say something. I had to. Swallowing, gripping my glass, I forced out the words. ‘Thank you, thank you, everyone. I’m touched, I really am; I’m quite lost for words.’ All these people that had turned out for me, this gathering of villagers, many of whom I’d known for years without knowing them at all. I knew of course they weren’t really here for me – I was simply an excuse. But I was touched nonetheless.
Others came to say hello, shaking my hand, slapping me on the back, asking how I was, whether I’d settled back in. I felt quite overwhelmed as I acknowledged people’s greetings and thanked them for their good wishes. Gradually, the crescendo faded, people returned to their seats and to their conversations. I’d been an infrequent visitor of the pub for years – low ceiling, sturdy wooden beams painted black and decorated with rows of horse brasses, polished wooden floor, and a large oil painting of a black pot-bellied pig.
Jenkins beckoned June and me over to his table where he was sitting with Joe Hamilton and an old cove with a pipe, Bill Fraser, his ruddy features disappearing behind his beard.
‘So,’ said Hamilton, ‘what’s it like to be back?’
‘Wonderful.’
‘Well, cheers, Robert,’ said Jenkins. ‘We’re all glad to see you safe and sound.’
June raised her glass and smiled at me. ‘We were worried for you, you know, when we heard that the Academic had gone down, we all thought, well, you can imagine…’
‘It must have been terribly difficult,’ said Jenkins.
‘Yes. It was. Extremely.’
‘Do you want to tell us about it?’ asked Fraser, sucking on his pipe.
‘Bill, really, that’s not the sort of thing one can ask,’ said Hamilton.
‘Listen,’ said Fraser, jabbing the tabletop, ‘I’ll be eighty-eight next birthday, so I can ask what I bloody well like.’
‘It’s a long story,’ I said. ‘Too long.’ And not, I thought, for the likes of pub entertainment. It was my story and I knew that before I could move on, I would need to confront it, come to terms with it, to replay every ghastly detail but tonight was not the night to do it.
‘You might get a medal,’ said June.
‘Just for surviving? I doubt it, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, I’d give you a medal. Now, gents, if you’ll excuse me…’
We all stood politely as June left us and joined another table. Still watching her, Fraser muttered, ‘They say he’s back soon enough.’
‘You mean Phil Parker?’ asked Jenkins.
‘He’s bad news, that one.’
‘Yes. I remember him at school,’ said Jenkins. The headmaster had been at the school for so long that he could lay claim to having taught virtually every villager under the age of thirty. I remembered Jenkins myself – his face continuously flushed, strands of his thinning red hair always out of place. When he came up close to, one could smell his breath. I still can’t smell kippers without thinking of Jenkins. One of his more recent teachers was Victoria, and it was Victoria I had to find. I had her engagement ring. I asked Jenkins whether she was around.
‘No, she left.’
‘Oh.’ I hadn’t expected this. ‘Do you know…’
‘Nope. She just upped and left one day. Not a word. Didn’t even have the decency to hand in her notice. The house is empty. Frightfully inconvenient. Luckily, I’ve found a new teacher before the term starts in September.’
‘Doesn’t someone–’
‘No. No one knows a thing. She disappeared in a puff of smoke.’
In the background, the piano started up again, a raucous tune.
I caught a glimpse of June standing at a table a few feet away. One of the seated men had his arm around her waist. She made no attempt to remove it. Hamilton started talking about the war in Russia and Jenkins interrupted with his views on Stalin. I only half paid attention.
‘What do you think, Robert? Has Herr Hitler overstretched himself?’
‘Sorry, it’s a bit noisy in here. Is that Gregory on the piano?’ Gregory Linden-Smith, an old friend of mine, a talent at the piano with a love for the classics – Beethoven, Liszt, Chopin, composers that were continually usurped by demands for Roll Out the Barrel, Knees up Mother Brown and other pub favourites.
‘That’s Gregory, all right,’ said Hamilton.
‘Silly bugger,’ growled Fraser. ‘Tried to get into the army. They wouldn’t have him, of course.’
Yes, I thought, that would figure. Poor stuttering Gregory, always trying to do what was best and invariably failing. Bright as a spark but very few were clever enough to realise it. To most, he just came across as a fool, the village idiot.
‘We’ve organised a football match,’ said Jenkins. ‘The men of our village against another. For charity. Half of the proceeds will go towards restoring our church roof, the other half to them to do with as they like. I’m to be referee.’
‘Men?’ snorted Fraser. ‘No men left, apart from the impaired and the imbeciles.’
‘Nonetheless, it’s for a good cause. Now that you’re back, Robert, perhaps you could play?’
‘I doubt it. I don’t think I’d be up to a football match.’
‘Parker will be back in time, though, won’t he?’ asked Fraser.
‘Yes,’ said Jenkins. ‘He’ll be wanting to play, that’s for sure.’
I heard my name being called. A group of men around a table beckoned me over. They’d got me another drink, they said. As long as they didn’t ask me about my war, I thought.
*

Two or three hours later, I found myself staggering home with June. I was drunk and perfectly aware of the fact. Before leaving the White Ship, I’d made a point of thanking everyone, lurching from table to table like a demented fool, becoming more emotional with each ‘thank you’. And now I was lumbering the short distance home, holding onto June for support.
‘I never knew you could sing,’ she said.
‘Sing? Was I singing?’
She laughed. ‘Of course, you were, like a good ’un.’
‘Good God, I was, wasn’t I?’
‘Oops, mind your step. Don’t want you collapsing now, do we?’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Back to yours, of course.’
After a couple of failed attempts at opening my front door, I had to give June the key. Angie came bounding over to me, her tail wagging. ‘Good girl,’ I said as she jumped up.
‘Will you be all right?’ asked June.
‘Probably not. You’d better come in.’
She smiled knowingly. ‘I think I’ll leave you to it. I’m sure you’ll be fine. Good night, Robert, and welcome home again.’
*

I staggered upstairs into the bedroom and fell onto the bed. Eventually, I managed to stir myself and get undressed and into my pyjamas. Lying on the bed, feeling nauseous, I stretched over, opened the drawer of the bedside table and found the ring. A simple ring, just a gold band with a delicate pattern. I twirled it around my palm. Simple but so important. But Victoria had gone. Gone in a puff of smoke.