Moon Rising (6 page)

I'd always seen my father's family as critical and unbending, stern by nature as well as by name, in little need of affection and undeserving of sympathy. Yet that night, for the first time, I began to discern that they'd had certain standards which commanded respect. Standards of conduct that may have been exacting but, in a strange way, made for a sense of rightness and safety. After my evening at the White Horse I found myself longing for the company of people with discipline and good manners; for a clean house with whitewashed walls and scrubbed tables; for an array of polished utensils, and a cheerful fire of driftwood crackling in the grate.

I lit a stub of candle and looked around, seeing dusty boards and grubby walls, tattered furnishings and what seemed a perpetual stack of unwashed pots in the scullery. In that moment, I experienced such a powerful wave of nostalgia for my grandmother's house, I could have wept.

~~~

Trying to ignore the grimness, I headed for the stairs. The house was old, built two or three centuries before in typical old Whitby style, at a time when seafarers' homes were stacked against the cliff like boxes, mostly only one room deep but four or five storeys high. Like ships inside, with spiral staircases linking each floor, oak-panelled walls in almost every room and square-paned windows overlooking the harbour. My room at the top had the smallest windows but the best view, and was the thing I liked most about living here.

I climbed the stairs, creeping past the first two landings, up to my eyrie beneath the eaves. The tiles lifted and clattered with every passing gust, doors and windows rattled, and, in spite of its position against the cliff, with every good blow the house seemed to shake. It had been a week of storms, and with high tides and heavy rain inland it was no surprise the harbour was flooded. From my window I could see most of it below the bridge, turbulent waters silvered by moonlight, the bridge itself a narrow line dashed by spray. Closer, between Tate Hill and the East Pier, the black hull of the Russian ship, the
Dmitry,
was being pounded by breakers. Even above the wind I could hear it shifting and grinding in protest.

Picturing the rescued seamen, I remembered a warm hand at my waist and the strength with which Mr Stoker had held me. I hoped I might see him again one day; more than that, I stared hard at the moon and earnestly wished for it.

I was still moon-gazing when I heard steps on the stair. As I turned, Bella burst in, breathless and dishevelled, her cheeks flushed from the day's excitements. ‘
Damsy
– where did you get to all day? I was starting to think you'd been swept off the pier! I've been looking all over – where've you been?'

She gave me no chance to reply, but flung herself down on my bed and at once began to tell me that a German barque had broken free of its moorings on the Bell Shoal, threatening to take half a dozen others with it; two ships had been wrecked on the beaches, and now there was a force of floodwater sweeping downriver which everyone said would carry the bridge away for certain.

‘And it looks more than likely, I must say. There are whole trees and a dead sheep jammed underneath, and they say two little bairns and an old woman from Ruswarp have been drowned already -'

‘I met up with Jack Louvain,' I said, not wanting to hear about drownings. ‘I was helping to move things out of the studio, when we heard about the
Mary and Agnes.
Mr Louvain wanted to take pictures, so...'

I told her of our struggles on the cliff, but when I mentioned the lifeboat she interrupted again, big-eyed and earnest, telling me the town was abuzz with argument. Not just about the launching rules but whether the coxswain had done right in that aborted rescue attempt. Some said rules were rules, and a good cox wouldn't let impatience turn his judgement, but others – Bella's father amongst them – thought the lifeboat committee had a cursed cheek to question the ability and bravery of a man like the coxswain.

Courage was not the point, I knew that. ‘Were you there?' I asked Bella.

‘No, I was helping up at Spital Bridge.'

‘Well, I was there, and all I can say is, he frightened me near to death. He should have waited, gone further out. I was so worried, trying to see the lifeboat lads were all right, I nearly went over the cliff – would have done, if it hadn't been for – well, the gentleman who was helping us out.'

‘What gentleman?' she asked suspiciously.

So then I had to explain – and it was gratifying, I must admit – all the day's adventures and near-catastrophes, followed by supper at the White Horse with the gentleman from London.

And then there had been those kisses on Cliff Lane...

‘Oh, he kissed you, did he?' Bella said with sudden reproof. ‘Did you like it?'

I thought about that, smiling, remembering the prickliness of rough tweeds, the feel of his beard against my cheek, and the wonderfully privileged smell of tobacco and whisky and freshly laundered linen. Touching chilly fingers to my own lips I knew that he'd stirred me, and if the events of today were never to be repeated, they would not be forgotten.

I knew also that Bella would not understand, so I stretched out on the bed beside her, and said with satisfaction, ‘Yes, it was nice. And so was he. And what's more,' I added with a sly smile, ‘it wasn't a bit like kissing a dead cod!'

It was a joke between us, one of Bella's most disparaging phrases, generally accompanied by a shudder of distaste. In spite of that, she was never without admirers. I thought my comment would make her laugh, but it didn't. She simply pulled a face and asked: ‘Did he offer you anything?'

I was shocked by the implication. ‘No, of course he didn't! Why should he?'

‘Why?' she repeated, as though addressing a simpleton. ‘Because most of them think we're fair game, or haven't you noticed? He bought you a meal – maybe he thought you were part of the bargain.'

The fact that such thoughts had gone through my own head a short while previously did not make me any the less angry. ‘Well, he didn't,' I declared, ‘he wasn't like that. Anyway, why are you being so hateful, Bella? It was only a bit of fun – I thought you'd enjoy it too.'

‘What, second-hand?' she scoffed, sliding off the bed and feeling for her shoes on the floor. ‘It's bad enough
first
-hand!'

With that she went, banging the door behind her, leaving me stinging at those unexpected barbs. I was so astonished by her reaction I could do nothing but stare after her, going over the conversation in my mind, looking for the point where it had gone awry. It must have been my fault, I decided at last; perhaps I'd been too full of myself and the evening's success, although I couldn't think why she should be so provoked. We'd shared experiences before, laughed at male vanities, bemoaned men's heedless cruelties; I was Bella's confidante and sympathiser, and would do nothing willingly to hurt her.

Mystified, more than a little hurt, I snuffed the candle and lay stretched out in bed. After a while I began to ask myself other questions, such as why Bella should be so contemptuous. Was she jealous? There was no need – she was a striking girl, with glossy brown hair and rosy cheeks, attractive in anyone's book. For some reason, though, she thought little of it, while I was just the opposite, looking for my ideal in most of the men I met. In those days I longed to be admired, but I was tall and angular, with a mass of red hair which generally seemed to attract more jests than compliments. I blamed the Sternes for my height and build, as I did for most of the ills in my life. They were all long-limbed and square-shouldered, the majority with sun-bleached hair and eyes that seemed drawn to the horizon, as if perpetually in search of a sail.

Perhaps a large single sail, I used to think in my more impatient moments, atop a dragon-headed longship, bringing their long-lost relatives from across the North Sea. Ten centuries might have passed, but anyone meeting Old Uncle Thaddeus out on the cliffs could have been forgiven for thinking the Viking raids were more recent events. For all his years he was a tall and imposing figure, and, with his thick white hair and flowing beard, resembled nothing more closely than an old Norse chieftain. All it needed was chain mail and a horned helmet to complete the image.

The family origins went back a long way, as Thaddeus Sterne was fond of repeating. Not even he could say how far, but Sternes were certainly in Bay at the time of the Dissolution, when Whitby Abbey was stripped of its lands and possessions. Local records had them down as fishermen and boat-owners – as they were still – and generations of intermarriage had not blunted minds or bodies to any noticeable degree.

The majority of the men were as able as they were clever, and I never knew one who was not a good seaman, although not all chose the sea for a living. The women were staunchly independent, known for a certain stoic endurance as much as for their good teeth and regular features. By and large they were handsome but serious, women who understood about living in a largely female community, helping each other out whenever they could, and bringing up children without a man in the house.

The rhythm of their lives was in tune with the seasons and the demands of men who were away from home for eight or nine months of the year. It seemed to me that this had always been so, and it chafed at me like some kind of manacle. Perhaps if my Scottish mother had lived a little longer I would have seen things differently; but my background wasn't altogether of the established pattern, so I didn't feel part of it, despite being raised by a woman who was a Sterne through and through.

As a girl I couldn't bear the idea of being stuck on the same bit of beach as aunts and grandmothers and great-grandmothers before me. My need was to strike out, make my own footprints in the sand; and yet, ironically, I came in the end to a destiny that was very much part of what the Sternes were about. It was just that I travelled by a different route.

Grandmother, being a Sterne by birth as well as by marriage, was not short of relatives or moral support after my father and grandfather were lost at sea. If nothing else, the women of the family understood tragedies like that. They could be kind and helpful in their humourless fashion, but philanthropists they were not. Most would have starved rather than borrow money from a relative. That was lauded as a virtue, of course, but there were two sides to it, and it was hard being on the wrong one, especially in winter, when food and fuel were low.

With the loss of the
Merlin
our small branch of the family was suddenly orphaned and penniless. It was hardly a novel situation, which is probably why it excited less concern at the time than perhaps the victims felt it warranted; after all, investing in shipping can be a risky business, especially when the venture is inadequately backed. I'm sure there have been many heroic gambles which have paid off handsomely, and a few foolhardy ones too; but there have been many more foolhardy failures, and the tale of the
Merlin
is probably one of the latter.

My father and grandfather, sailing as Mate and Master, were joint owners of the trim little schooner and a sizeable part of her cargo, which was tantamount to putting every egg in the same basket – something I would never do. But times were different then, and who knows what levels of need or desperation drove them to it. There's no denying that success would have made them a fortune at that time of year, but an unexpected and particularly ferocious storm put an end to their lives as well as their hopes. It had long-lasting and far-reaching consequences for everyone.

My mother, who was living in Whitby and expecting her third child, went into labour within hours of receiving the news. The poor little baby lived for a day and a night, while Mother took a week to die of childbed fever.

My brother Jamie and I were too stunned to know what was going on. We knew our mother was ill, and I knew that dead meant gone, but Jamie always thought she was coming back. He was four and I was seven, and the only home we had known was in Whitby. After the tragedy, everything had to be sold in an attempt to meet the demands of creditors, and we were taken back to Robin Hood's Bay, to my father's family. It was a place we had merely visited, and all those people who said they were related were much less familiar to us than our old friends and neighbours on the Cragg. Father was usually away most of the year, so his absence was not unusual, but Mother's going left a huge hole in our lives that no one attempted to repair.

In those early days Grandmother seemed a remote and somewhat grim figure, but now, looking back, I imagine she was numb with grief and shock. Somehow – and I was too young to grasp this at the time – somehow she coped with the loss of her husband and only son, a daughter-in-law who may not have been all she would have wished but was still family; huge debts, and the sudden responsibility of two young children. It was hard for us to accept an unsmiling stranger in place of the pretty, laughing, loving young woman who had been our mother. Unfortunately, by the time Grandmother was ready to take comfort from our presence instead of regarding us as a burden, we had become set in our reserve and our view of her had become fixed. She was my grandmother and I was her namesake, but I cannot say I ever discovered what she was like as a woman. It was a shame then and it grieves me still.

She always said we could not expect charity from our relatives. Old Uncle Thaddeus, who had buried two wives and had no living offspring to support, would have given her his last penny had she been willing to accept it, but she always refused. I didn't understand at the time, and it was never put into words, but they were first cousins and she'd married his brother. Whether he'd always hankered after her I don't know, but I imagine she was concerned to keep a respectable distance between them. She did not want anyone – relative, friend or enemy – suggesting that Damaris Sterne was taking advantage of such a wealthy and influential man. Or worse, that he was paying her for something that would not stand scrutiny.