The Kingdom by the Sea (12 page)

The next second, Artie had let go of the dog and grabbed Merman, and was dragging him on his knees out of the pillbox. The dog was barking wildly, and Artie was swearing like a man possessed.

Harry was still trying to quieten Don when he heard the first blows. Harry didn’t try to follow. He just sat listening to the sounds of the fighting and Artie swearing, and remembering the lost look on Merman’s face.

Then he heard Merman screaming and sobbing. “Stop it, stop it, stop it.” Terror drove him out of the pillbox. To see Merman on the ground, and Artie with a boot raised.

“Stop it, Artie. You’ll
kill
him!”

There was a trickle of blood down Artie’s face from a cut lip. But Merman was writhing on the ground with his hands over his face, and his hands were red with blood. Harry flung himself at Artie; grabbed him round the legs shouting, “Stop it, stop it.”

At last, Artie relaxed, and stood still, just panting and slobbering. Then he licked the cut on his mouth, and drew a hand across his face. And looked down at Harry, and said, “Hullo, kid. It’s you.” His face still looked very strange.

“You coulda
killed
him,” said Harry.

Artie sat down heavily on the grass. “Aye, mebbe you’re right. I wouldn’t want to swing for that bugger - he’s not worth it.” He was still taking deep shuddering breaths.

“Merman didn’t hurt me, honest! He was just pestering me.”

“I know, lad. I followed him from the camp, the dirty bastard. Saw him going along the cliff. Nobody walks along the cliffs this weather. So I knew he was coming after you. I knew he’d spotted your hiding place. He must have seen me coming here, when you were poorly wi’ your leg.

“You mean - all the time he was talking to me, you were
listening
?”

“Aye. I had to make sure what he was up to, the dirty bastard. Had to wait for him to show his hand. That’s why I hung on to your dog, when you called him. I had to hear what he was sayin’ to you…”

“WHY?”

“Because he was
jealous
!” It was a new creaky voice. They both turned and stared. Merman had hauled himself to his feet. His face was hideous, a mask of brown drying blood. “He was jealous. Because he wants the same thing from you as me. Only he was scared to ask for it.”

“You filthy bastard.” Artie leapt to his feet and made for Merman again. But Harry clung to Artie’s legs, and tripped Artie up, so he fell full length. And Merman went staggering off along the cliff top, like a drunken scarecrow. When he was at a safe distance, he turned and shouted, “I’ll get you for this. Both of you.”

Then he staggered away out of sight.

They sat on a long time, staring at the sea, Artie dabbing at his cut mouth with a clean white handkerchief that slowly turned into a bouquet of bloodstains, getting fainter and fainter.

Finally, Artie said, “I’d never have touched you, Harry. You know that. Not like he thought. It’s just his twisted mind. He thinks everybody is like he is.”

“I know,” said Harry miserably. “You’re a married man with a son my age.”

“That doesn’t mean much,” said Artie bitterly. “So is he. I feel sorry for his wife.” Then he shrugged, and said, “We’re sitting here like a couple of loonies, getting ourselves soaked. Let’s get out of the weather.”

They went back into the pillbox, and Harry made up the fire. They tried to get the bloodspots out of Artie’s battledress jacket, but they wouldn’t come out.

“Will you get in trouble?” asked Harry.

“What? A corporal having a fight wi’ a corporal? Happens all the time, in this man’s army. It’ll cost me for a new battledress, that’s all. ‘Less I can scrounge one from the quartermaster. But it’s the end of a perfect friendship, our Harry. You can’t stay here. He can make trouble for
you
.”

“Why? What’ve I done?”

“Sleeping rough. Stealing a dog. You’ve got to move on,
son. He’ll probably be on the phone to the police, the moment he gets himself cleaned up. Anonymous phone call, of course. No names, no pack-drill. Look, you get packed up and get to that road over yonder. I’ll walk back to camp an’ borrow a thirty-hundredweight and set you on your road. Where were you goin’, when we first met?”

“Holy Island. Lindisfarne.”

“Right. Lindisfarne it is. Unless the tide’s in.”

But the tide was in. Lindisfarne was an island, cut off by a mile of sea, almost hidden, a grey long flat shadow in the teeming rain.

“I’ve got to get back to camp,” said Artie. “I’m on guard duty in an hour, and me kit’s filthy. But I can’t leave you out in this…”

He sat with his hands clenched round the steering wheel, chewing at his teeth, the lines deepening on his face. Harry knew he was in agony; like a fox caught by its leg in a trap, and the trap was the Army. If Artie wasn’t on duty in an hour, he’d be in real trouble; lose his stripes, maybe get sent to the glasshouse.

He must let Artie out of the trap; it was the one good thing to do, though it felt like stepping off the edge of the world.

He said, gently, trying to keep the tremor out of his
voice, “Find me a thick hawthorn hedge. Under a tree. That’ll keep me dry.”

Artie looked at him; his eyes were grateful and very ashamed. “Ye’re a good kid. I wish I could take you home to my missus. She’d look after you. This bloody awful war…”

They had to drive around quite a lot, to find a hawthorn hedge with a tree. But they found one at last, and Artie lifted down all his kit, gave Don a last rough desperate pat, shook hands and drove away without looking back. It was only after the truck had vanished that Harry realised he had something pressed into his right hand, after Artie’s last handshake. A little wad of dirty paper. He opened it up, and saw three very oily pound notes. And heard again Artie’s last desperate words.

“Keep in touch, son. Let me know you’re getting on all right.”

Three pounds. That was a whole week’s wages for Artie. More. How would he afford his fags now? And Harry didn’t even need the money. He had plenty of
money.
When he got settled again, he would write to Artie, and send the money back.

Meanwhile, he was getting wet. With no means of getting dry again. That was the only thing that made sense at the moment.

Harry forced his way into the hedge. It was quite dry in there; lots of dry leaf-mould, with only a few prickles.

He curled up tight with Don, smelling the doggy smell of him for comfort, driving his face into Don’s fur, to block the world out. And he slept; a queer jerky sleep full of dreams that switched from one scene to another. Sometimes he was sea-coaling on the beach with Joseph; sometimes walking through the woods with Artie; sometimes back at his own house, staring at the little blue flames licking up from the bricks that had once been home; and sometimes on the beach before the war, building sandcastles. But always, Merman was somewhere about, Merman with his bleeding face, wanting…

Then he would jolt awake, and see the dull grey sky showing through the dark green hawthorn leaves, and hear the endless sound of the rain, and know that Merman was far away. Like everything else. Everything was far away, except the world, which was a big black cold hole now, reaching in with icy fingers to steal his very life.

Then he would bury his face in Don’s warm fur and sleep again.

It was the sunset that woke him, shining in through the leaves. A magnificent sunset. It had stopped raining, and the pilot’s watch said four hours had passed. Six o’clock.

Above his head, the hedge and big tree were dripping. Right on to his head. They had kept him dry till now, but they were going to make him very wet, if he stayed much longer.

Nothing for it but to get on the move again. And he was ravenous.

He stumped along, head down, not wanting to look at the world. Don ran ahead, full of life, questing for food without a care in the world.

Once again, Harry wished he was a dog.

He walked up the rain-soaked road, towards the sunset, which was a lovely lemon-yellow, and turning the road lemon-yellow too, so he seemed to walk on the light, on sky. It lifted him a little; above the dense mass of misery about Artie. While the sunset lasted, he felt he could keep going, could almost
fly
above his troubles. But he knew that when the dark came, he’d plunge deep, deep back into them. Keep walking; keep walking away from them.

Around him, the fields were empty. But there was a house ahead, where the road met the sky. A house with two chimneys smoking. They must be rich, to have two fires going at once, in wartime. He imagined a table laid for supper, with cloth serviettes and heavy silver knives and
forks, like they had in Carrick’s Cafe, in Newcastle. Pork pie and chips - big fat Carrick’s chips. The thought was a mistake - his belly filled up suddenly with the fizzy liquid of hunger. But he went on with his fantasy about the house. It was the house of somebody he knew - they were waiting for him to come home.

Oddly enough, at that point (and he was still a hundred yards away), the figure of a woman came out of the garden gate, and stood in the road, watching. Only she was in silhouette against the sunset, and he couldn’t tell if she was staring at him or away from him. But he could tell from the way her elbows stuck out that her hands were clasped tight together. She was waiting for somebody, and anxious as well. He still had the absurd idea she was waiting for him; but it must be somebody out of sight, beyond the brow of the hill, for there was no one on the road behind him. He’d checked.

Then, as he got nearer, he saw she
was
looking at him; she had come down the road ten paces towards him. She gestured to him, as if urging him on.

Again he looked behind him; but there was nobody.

She shouted something urgent, which he couldn’t make out. Unable to bear the suspense, he broke into a feeble trot, all the weight of the pack and pans on his back banging away.

As he neared her, she reached out and grabbed both his hands. He looked, bewildered, at her middle-aged bespectacled face. He didn’t know her from Adam. She was a total stranger. But she was yelling at him urgently.

“My mother’s fallen on the stairs, an’ I can’t lift her! Come quick and help me lift her!”

If she hadn’t been holding his hands, he might well have run away. He was scared of old age and illness. He had enough troubles of his own. But the woman had a firm grip on him, so he went. Up the crazy-paving path, with huge white conch-shells lined up on both sides. Dreading what he might see, when his eyes got used to the dark hallway.

A massive bulk, at the foot of the stair. Fat grey-clad legs sprawled any old how, skirt right up above the knees. A clutter of sprawled arms and knobbly sticks. And a face.

The face smiled up at him. “There’s a kind lad,” the old lady said. It was a headmistressy sort of face, with white hair piled high, and gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the nose, and dangling a gold chain. He knew in an instant this was no useless old granny; this was somebody far too important to be left lying in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.

“If you’ll take this hand,” said the old lady, as calm and decisive as Field Marshal Montgomery, “Ada can manage the other. Now, both heave together. And
stop flapping
, Ada! I’m not dead yet.”

There was one tremendous heave, and she was on her feet, her spectacles wildly awry. She adjusted them, and said, “Sticks!”

Ada grovelled behind her, and produced the sticks. The old lady settled her grip on them both, nodded to Harry, as if to say all was well, and said, “Come in, young man,” and led the way in stately fashion.

The room was large and cosy, with a blazing fire and bookshelves all over the walls. But what caught his eye was a table laid for supper. With big fat silver knives and forks, just like at Carrick’s Cafe.

“You’ll stay for a bite, of course. Take his bags upstairs, Ada. And set another place. We must look after our rescuer. Do sit down, Master… I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name?”

“Harry… Baguley.” He shook hands solemnly.

“I expect you would like to wash your hands, Master Baguley? Show him the bathroom, Ada.”

The bathroom smelt fragrant and female. Like their bathroom at home, after Mam had had a bath, only much more so. He was almost afraid to use the pale pink towel, in case he left a dirty mark on it. He washed his face and hands three times, then dried them on his filthy handkerchief. But he borrowed a large pink comb and combed his hair, and carefully checked for hairs afterwards, and pulled the hairs
out of the comb and put them in his pocket to throw away later. Then he grew afraid he had made that small dirty mark on the pale pink carpet, and spent three minutes trying to scrub that out with his hanky and spit.

He hovered on the landing, suddenly terribly shy. But the old lady’s head appeared, and she said, “Ah, there you are!” And then he
had
to go downstairs.

“Do sit here. I expect you’re ready for your supper. I see you’ve been camping! You haven’t had very good weather for the first week of your holiday!”

“No, it’s been a bit wet.” He realised how posh her voice was, against his own. Even though he was talking to her the proper way he talked to the teachers at school.

“Camping by the sea?” He followed her eyes. There was a small pile of sand on the carpet, where his bag had rested for a moment. His mouth fell open with embarrassment, but she just said, “I’ve loved the sea all my life, since I was a young gel. Used to swim every day - three times a day, when I could. My father used to call me the Mermaid.”

He thought she didn’t look much like a mermaid now. She said, “I don’t look much like a mermaid now, do I?” and roared with laughter. Then she said, “Tell me all the things you’ve been up to. Your dog’s quite snug in the kitchen, by the way. Ada found a ham bone for him, with a bit of meat on.”

So he told her all about Joseph, while Ada bustled in with plates of sliced ham and tomato, and a stand full of scones, and a large sponge cake.

By the end of tea, his belt felt very tight. He knew he had made a pig of himself, but she kept on urging him on, with a kind of glee. “I know what appetites young men like you have.” Half-way through tea, the sunset had faded, and it had begun to rain, a heavy hopeless rain that battered at the windows. When he had refused a fourth piece of cake, the old lady pushed back her chair, grasped her sticks and said, “Not a night for camping-out, I’m afraid. Come and sit by the fire.” Then, when he had sat, she said, “Ada, make up the bed in young David’s room.”