Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series (6 page)

‘But I don’t fish.’

‘Doesn’t matter. You can always learn or just come along for the beer and company.’

‘But...’

‘No buts please, Mr Oakley, you come along and you’ll thank me for it afterwards.’

‘Well, okay then.’

‘Good. Right, I’ll make a list of the rest.’

And so it was that, within the space of ten minutes, the transformed and forceful Harry Morton had signed most of us up in his little venture and even extracted deposit money from many. The landlord had agreed to supply quantities of bottled beer as his contribution to the jaunt and others had promised to bring provisions.

‘Right then, that’s all settled. I’ll see about the boat and accommodation for the weekend and I’ll fix up a mini-bus to get us there. We’ll meet outside the Argyll, 7 o’clock sharp Friday evening, okay?’

A ragged chorus of yes sort of noises answered this and, thus placated, Harry took both himself and his optimistic bustling energy out of the pub.

‘Was that Harry Morton, or an engaging impostor?’ asked the landlord.

‘It was a post-liberation-of-the-slaves Harry,’ said someone.

‘A walking advertisement for bereavement,’ said another.

‘I’m told that when the life assurance people pay up he’ll be quite well off,’ a third chipped in.

The landlord smiled benevolently. ‘Life, I’d like you to meet Harry Morton. Harry Morton, meet Life. I hope you’ll get on together.’

*  *  *

In the event, Mr Morton’s arrangements for the weekend trip were faultless. Our party was conveyed by the promised mini-bus to Coast Lodge, a beach-side boarding house of quite unreasonable comfort and friendliness. We went
en masse
, after an excellent tea, to inspect the craft Harry had hired for us and within an hour of our arrival by the sea we were venturing forth upon it. The owners of the guest house, a big-built man and his attractive wife came down to the beach with their two dogs to wave us off. Even the weather seemed willing to add its blessing to Mr Morton’s brain child and granted us a warm, clear and still evening. In due course the stars came out and those of us who were not fishing, myself included, could give our full attention to the marvellous display they provided.

It was, I decided, an idyllic setting. We had moored perhaps a mile offshore at a point equidistant from the silent bright lights of Hastings on one side and Eastbourne on the other. Behind us were scattered points of yellow light marking the position of Pevensey and Pevensey Bay and I looked, without success, to see if I could make out the dark bulk of the hybrid Romano-Norman castle that we had passed in the bus earlier on.

A relaxed and contented quiet had settled over us after the initial attack on the supplies brought from home, and fishermen and observers alike seemed happily lost in their thoughts. The gentle lapping of the sea upon the boat and shore saved the silence from seeming unnatural.

Mr Disvan had produced a large meerschaum pipe from somewhere and was looking out over the sea while he smoked it. This surprised me on two counts for, in the first place, I had never seen him smoke before, and secondly because the smoke, when it reached me, was aromatic and sweet and entirely unlike that of normal tobacco. I tried to place where I’d encountered that herbal smell before and realised quickly that it was in the context of the concerts and student bed-sits of my early university days. I was wondering just how to frame the question that naturally sprang to mind when Mr Disvan saved me the trouble by addressing me:

‘Looking for the castle are you, Mr Oakley?’

‘Well, I was a moment ago, yes.’

‘You won’t be able to see it; there are no lights there at all—but that’s the direction you’d need to look in.’

He indicated with his finger the general line of sight.

‘A very interesting place, that,’ he continued. ‘Probably the last organised centre of resistance against the invaders in the Wealden area.’

‘What invaders?’

‘You lot. The Angles and Saxons and Jutes of course.’

‘Oh, you’re talking of way back, are you. Yes, I understand now.’

‘In Roman times it was a port with its own squadron of war ships and a garrison of professional fighting men. Then when the Roman ways began to fail, I suppose people turned to it for guidance and protection.’

‘But without success, presumably.’

‘That’s right. Time moves on, you see, and their particular time was over. There’s little point in fighting against it although people persevere in doing so. However, while it lasted and there were men to man the walls, Pevensey Castle would have been the focal point of this stretch of coast. The last flickering light of Roman civilisation you might say, if you were feeling poetic.’

With this thought he lapsed into silence again leaving me to contemplate Roman Britain’s last stand. I was just succeeding in visualising these stoic, doomed defenders (it was hard to imagine them without togas and legionary armour) when Disvan again broke my train of thought.

‘Actually I’m misleading you to a certain extent,’ he said absently. ‘In those times the Castle wasn’t a castle but what you might more properly call a fort, and its name was Anderida, not Pevensey. Similarly, I very much doubt that the men who held it were what we would understand as soldiers. A very late Roman document mentions a unit of barbarian mercenaries there.’

‘You’re very knowledgeable about all this.’

‘So I should be.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Nothing.’

He puffed away at his pipe, perhaps just the hint of a satisfied grin on his face at this drawing out of my restrained curiosity.

‘So what happened?’

‘They all died. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle says that in 491 AD, and I quote: “Aelle and Cissa besieged Andredes Ceaster and slew all who were in there. Not one Briton was left alive”.’

‘You’ve been genning up on this specially for the trip.’

‘No, I promise you not.’

‘And with them, I suppose, went the last memory of Rome in the region.’

‘Possibly not, but what does it matter? The invaders prevailed and we’re a whole civilisation away from the events of that time. People should forget.’

This puzzled and intrigued me. ‘Forget? I thought they had. Come on, out with it for once, Mr Disvan, what exactly do you mean?’

He looked relaxedly at me for a while and then opened his mouth to speak when, just at that moment, Harry let out a loud excited cry. Our attention was naturally diverted, and I thus never learnt the nature of Disvan’s intended reply.

‘What is it, Harry?’ said someone.

‘It’s a catch, a catch,’ he replied excitedly. ‘My first in three months!’

‘Good on you, boy,’ said the landlord, ‘bring ‘er on in.’

Morton needed little urging; he played the fish like the natural he was, alternately feeding the line out and then feverishly reeling the victim in to its doom.

‘A big-un is it, Harry?’ said the off-duty Binscombe Community Policeman who was along with us.

‘Moderate. Nothing enormous, but quite promising.’

‘Well come on then, let’s have a look at it.’

‘I’ve nearly got it, she’s weakening.’  Harry pulled the rod almost vertical and reeled hard. ‘Here we go!’

As these words escaped his lips, the water at the boat’s edge erupted and from the water spout a large white figure surged with blinding speed to grasp Morton’s fishing rod.

Harry screamed (it’s possible that we all did) and attempted to retreat, but his collar was quickly grasped by an implacable strong arm. As we all cravenly drew back and abandoned him to his fate, Morton was gradually drawn to the boat’s rail until his knees were hard against it and he had to fight to stop himself being dragged over.

What was once Mary Morton was considerably the worst for wear but still instantly recognisable as the woman we had known. With one arm over the rail and the other clasped like a lover’s around Harry’s neck, she stared with sightless eyes into her husband’s terrified face while drawing him, slowly but surely, towards her. As he came she mouthed angry words and phrases at him but no sound came forth from the badly damaged throat.

Sensing the inevitable end to this unequal struggle, Harry recovered a modicum of self control and turned to face us:

‘Help me, please, she’s going to kill me!’

Mr Disvan stepped forward and shouted something that I either didn’t quite catch or that was in a language I didn’t understand. It seemed to have some effect because the monster woman turned to look at us for the first time.

Being under the relentless scrutiny of that dead, white face made me forget Harry’s plight for a moment and wish with all my heart that Disvan had not attracted her attention. Fortunately (for us) the experience was not prolonged, for she shook her green matted hair and with a controlled, almost languid, motion spat contemptuously at Disvan before returning to her grisly endeavours.

She tightened her embrace and drew Harry right up to her waterlogged, naked body. Then, with a final heave, our friend’s feet were lifted completely off the deck and the one-time husband and wife fell back into the water.

Even then, it seemed, the battle continued, for vigorous splashing noises could be heard interspersed with occasional desperate cries and, perhaps inspired or shamed by Morton’s tenacious fight for life, I shook off my paralysis and rushed to help.

Quite what I intended to do remains unclear to this day, but en route to the point of Harry’s departure I grabbed a boat hook, possibly with vain hopes of killing what was already dead.

Wielding this inadequate weapon I leaned, perhaps foolishly, over the side and instantly found myself face to face with the woman I’d seen buried a few months before. She was half raised out of the sea as, with both of her hands on the top of his head, she pushed her spouse beneath the waves. All that was visible of Harry was his pate and two wildly flailing arms. Realising that she was observed, the creature looked at me and grinned in triumph. For a mere second or so we exchanged glances as she went about her work. What Mary Morton saw in my face I cannot guess nor wish to speculate but for my part I recall only her white, water-filled eyeballs and the complete absence of earthly life behind them. It was a sight that will accompany me, ever fresh, till I at last reach my own grave.

Weakly and, I was later told, in a state of some shock, I fell back.

Our last sight of Harry Morton was of him being borne away, seemingly still alive, with his head clamped firmly under one of his wife’s arms while the other propelled them strongly out to sea. A final despairing yell wafted back to us and then the gloom swallowed them up.

For several long minutes silence reigned on the boat before the constable aboard felt it his duty to try and rally us.

‘He fell overboard,’ he stated authoritatively. ‘He accidentally fell overboard and for some inexplicable reason went down like a stone. That’s what we’ll say. What with both me and Mr Disvan testifying, no suspicion will fall upon us.’

‘You can’t be serious!’ I interjected rather loudly. ‘You saw what happened to Harry and you’ll just say he fell overboard?’

‘It’s for the best, Mr Oakley,’ said the landlord gently.

‘After all,’ agreed another, ‘in a manner of speaking, that’s what did happen. He did fall overboard. We don’t have to say how exactly, do we?’

‘Look at it this way, Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan in as kindly a voice as I’d yet heard him use, ‘what else could you say?  Nobody would believe you, and getting yourself into a mess in that way won’t bring Harry back, will it?’