The Channel is a narrowing funnel that results in high tides and fast currents.
The constant swift tides keeps fine sediment suspended in the Channel so that its waters always have the appearance of milky tea. Nevertheless it is a haven for wading birds who strut and feed their way along the muddy foreshore following the outgoing tide. Despite the perennially murky waters the Channel is well stocked with fish and salmon swim up it from the great Ocean to the west and then up the clearer streams that rise in the hills to the north and spawn. The bird life is rich and interesting and our young protagonist has taken to the hobby of bird watching and decides that a good time to see the birds is very early in the morning when the tide has just turned. But his bird watching adventure turns to something else when he notices a gaggle of gulls circling something large and dark on the distant foreshore.
(This story by Robert Heming is copyright)
Roddy awoke to the faint grey of a pre-dawn light beginning to drive the night shadows from his bedroom. Going to bed on the evening before he had banged his head on his pillow four times. This was an awakening trick he had read about and he thought it worth trying. He did not have an alarm clock and besides, if he had used it would have awakened the entire house and then there would have been questions about why he was up so early and his plan would have been spoiled. He had never been awake so early before except when he was sick, and then it was just a matter of turning over and trying to get back to sleep. Now however, he needed to get up. It was early summer, nights were shortening and memories of dark winter mornings had faded long ago. Stumbling to his bedroom window he looked see if the sky was clear but the light was still too weak and flat and everything looked grey.
He had planned this early awakening for some weeks, as he wanted to explore the foreshore at dawn when the tide was ebbing. He had read that the shorebirds were very abundant at that time and he was in a phase of his life when he had developed an acute interest in bird watching, or ornithology as he had recently learned to call it. His friends just found it a bit boring. They liked to collect birds’ eggs more than they liked to watch and identify birds.
He too had a collection of birds’ eggs. They were kept in a box and each of the eggs was in smaller cardboard box, resting in a soft layer of cotton wool and with a carefully printed label identifying the bird species and the place and time that they were collected. At one time he had contemplated building a wooden cabinet with sliding draws in which he could keep the collection and preserve them from accidental harm. Recently however his attitude towards this hobby had changed. It all started when he was reading one of his favorite books in which the villain was an egg collector. This had alerted him to the bad effects of egg collecting, the damage done to the birds and finding that even taking just one egg from the nestn could cause the birds to abandon the remainder of the clutch, and fail to breed at all that season. The incident that really brought it home to him was the time that he wanted to raid the magpie’s nest.
Common and aggressive birds, magpies have a reputation for stealing things that were bright and attractive to them. He had read stories of magpies stealing women’s jewelry and taking it to their nest. He was not sure that these stories were just exaggerations or even complete fabrications but they were certainly interesting and when he saw that magpies had built a nest in the top of a tall elm that stood in the middle of a row of elms bordering the hay field near his house, he decided that this was an opportunity to learn for himself the truth or otherwise of these stories. At the very least he might be able to collect one of their eggs and that would be a real coup as none of his friends had a magpie egg. In fact their collections were almost duplicates in that they were full of the common and easily collected eggs such, as thrush or blackbird’s with perhaps the occasional reed warbler’s egg. Crows and magpies were rare for a good reason; they built their nests far off the ground near the tops of trees and they were large and aggressive birds.
Roddy had scouted the magpie’s nest for almost a week before deciding that the tree could be climbed. Although he possessed only a cheap pair of binoculars that were nothing like the heavy and powerful ones that Albert kept on his yacht, they were sufficient to locate a practical climbing route up to the nest. It was going to be particularly difficult at the top of the climb as the nest was high in the tree where the branches were thin and would not bear his weight well.
The first part of the climb was straightforward as the limbs were close together and the climbing was easy, but as he neared the nest he encountered a difficulty that he had not anticipated. The magpies became very agitated at his approach and they began to fly around the tree screeching at him. They made such a noise that people in a nearby house came out to see what the fuss was about. When they saw that there was a boy climbing toward the nest, they began to shout at him to come down. He ignored them at first and continued to climb.
As he approached the nest he found that the thinner branches would not hold his weight and he had to stay close to the trunk of the tree to avoid having a branch bend beneath him and cause him to lose his footing. At this point the magpies became even more agitated and instead of just flying in circles and screaming out their calls at him, they began to dive between the branches and he could feel the wind of their attacking swoops. This was unexpected and very unnerving but thinking that these swooping screaming dives were a tactic to scare him he struggled on and reached the nest. He didn’t think that they would hit him or peck at him, as that would have put the birds in danger from the network of branches that were still thick enough to make it hard for the birds to fly through. However, the combination of the bird’s aggression and the shouting from the people in the nearby house began to unnerve him.
The final straw came as he paused and looked up at the nest and realized that it was built close to the trunk and the large and untidy collection of twigs that formed the base of the nest would force him to clamber out on the branches if he wanted to be able to look in and select an egg to steal. Even if the branches were strong enough to bear his weight he could see that they thinned out considerably just below the nest and that would allow the magpies to fly close to him and perhaps peck him. The prospect of hanging on to some thin, weak branches and be exposed to the beaks of the now very angry birds began to weaken his resolve. Yet he also found that he was being deeply affected by the cries of distress and anger that came from the birds. He began to think of them as not just some impersonal bird but as protective parents who were upset and angry that their offspring were being threatened. Their agitation made him realize that what to him was just an addition to his collection and something that he could boast about to his friends, was of great emotional consequence to these birds; these parents. He had not really thought about the emotions that could be felt by animals. To him they had always seemed to be so unlike humans that to think of them as having emotions was somehow, well, just unthinkable. Yet here were these birds not just agitated but putting themselves in harm’s way by swooping at him at high speed and thereby risking a collision with a branch or sturdy twig that could easily have broken a wing and sent them hurtling to the ground.
He stopped climbing and wedging himself safely against a forked branch, watched the birds and listened to their cries of agitation. Below, the people from the adjacent house were now leaning over the back wall of their garden and shouting harder at him as they could see that he was in reach of the nest. Whether they were more concerned about him or the birds, he was unsure, as the woman was yelling something about falling. Again he looked again at the nest above him and thought about how he could perhaps just reach over and grasp an egg and remove it, but he could see that to do that would challenge even Peter’s amazing tree climbing expertise.
The birds kept up their high pitched distress cries and he looked again at them circling and swooping and at that moment he decided to not just retreat but to give up the whole hobby of egg collecting. It was just wrong and he could see that now. Not only should he stop doing it but also he needed to persuade his friends to give it up. Now, as he watched the bird’s distress he could understand what he had read about bird’s abandoning their nests after an egg collector had raided it. Suspended several feet below the nest, he became oblivious to the cacophony of the bird’s distress and the shouting from the people in adjacent house. He was frozen in the cruck of a branch as his mind grappled with these moral arguments.
Slowly he became aware of his surroundings again. Looking up at the nest and the angry circling birds, then at the ground below, he decided to clamber back down to the ground and leave the magpie’s nest untouched. The descent was uncomfortable as the people continued to shout at him from the safety of their backyard. Coming down a tree was always more difficult because one had to feel for footholds and it was hard to see around the contortions of ones body. Slowly and carefully he found each foothold, tested it by easing his weight onto the branch and, if it felt secure he put all of his weight onto it and carefully changed his handgrip. He had been so intent on reaching the nest that he had not realized how high it was and the climb down seemed interminable. At least the people who had shouted at him were no longer there. Once they saw that he was abandoning the attempt to reach the nest they must have been satisfied and gone off to do something else.
From that time on he had turned away egg collecting and had made himself unpopular by continually lecturing his friends about the evils of bird nesting. He had also found a book that not only described different bird species and had pictures that helped identification, but also described the life of birds and their habits. This was far more fascinating than just collecting eggs or recognizing birds and adding them to his list and it was because of this that he now found himself struggling into his clothes in the strengthening pre-dawn light from his window. The house was silent except for the occasional snore from his parent’s bedroom. He did not want to wake them, so he had prepared his outdoor clothes before going to bed and all he had to do was to creep silently down the stairs, avoiding the treads that would creak or groan, and open the door to the back room without a noise. He had long practiced the skills of moving around as silently as possible and all of that experience helped him as he slowly and carefully turned the knob on the door, opened it and slipped through. Then he had to hold the handle on the inside very tightly so that it could not move and make a sound while gently closing the door and allowing the catch to slowly and quietly move back into place.
Now he could move more rapidly and he quickly crossed the room, went through kitchen and, taking the key off the hook near the back door, opened it silently and passed outside to the porch. Hidden there were his boots and jacket along with his old ex-army shoulder bag containing his binoculars, notebook, bird identification book and pencil. He had not put any food in it but he did have a small bottle of water, just in case. The plan was to be gone for just a few hours and be back at around nine o’clock. That would give him at least four hours and would not draw attention to his absence.
The eastern sky was already beginning to lighten and he noticed with pleasure that there were few clouds. That would mean a pleasant few hours in the low sunshine before any mist or low cloud might form as it often did as the sun warmed the fields and reens of this flat, watery country. In just a few minutes he was over the railway and onto the sea bank and running toward the sea. Not surprisingly he had not seen anyone about on the Lane; there were no cars and this was still much to early for any buses to be about. He had the world to himself and it was surprisingly exhilarating to be the only human within sight. Even the usually busy railway line was silent, the brightly polished rails gleaming like silver slashesagainst the dullness of the grey ballast. Above him the sky was clear and there was but the gentlest of breezes. Roddy wondered why he had not done this before. The wonderful feeling of freedom that came from being the only person in this silent and empty world was exhilarating.
As he neared the shoreline and the point where the sea bank turned sharply to parallel the coast, he could hear the rush of the sea. Despite the almost windless morning, the sea was still in motion and the waves were dashing against the mud cliff. To his left were the fields where the farmers kept dairy cows and took out the annual hay crop. Skeins and whorls of thin mist topped the reens, and a light mist covered some of the fields, thickening in places where the shallow troughs sliced across the fields and down to the reen banks. Roddy had noticed these shallow troughs before but this was the first time that he had noticed their regularity. Who made these and what were they for? Perhaps Albert would know. He made a mental note to ask when he next saw him. On he hurried for he could already hear the sound made by many birds and realized that he needed to find a good observation point to see what they were doing.
Roddy slipped off the crest of the sea bank and worked his way along the landward side so that he was hidden from the birds that seemed to be massing on the salt grass next to the mud cliff. The tide was at its peak and the waves were sucking against the foot of the mud cliff and occasionally sending up a plume of frothy seawater over the top and onto the grass. It was not the time of year for the highest tides which meant that the foreshore mud would be exposed soon and from his reading he knew that the birds would be following the retreating tide and probing the mud for food.
Slowly he crawled his way up the bank until his head was just over the top and he could see a great gaggle of birds massing on the shoreline. Carefully unpacking his haversack, he laid the books and binoculars on the grass beside him. Glancing behind he scanned the reen that separated the sea bank from the farmland beyond. It was already bearing large splashes of green duckweed that would grow as the weather warmed until it covered the surface of the water almost completely. Only in those few places where there was some movement of water over a small weir or some other obstruction would the green coating separate to expose the water surface. In the fields the mist was thickening as he had expected but it was not building into a fully-fledged fog that would obscure all but the tops of the trees. Hopefully the faint morning breeze would take care of the mist and keep it from thickening.
He peered over the bank and there in front were several birds that he had not seen before. Overhead were the perpetually circling gulls, their cries cacophonous and continuous. It was the background sound that he always associated with the City; the keeeee –kee- kee –kee-kee sound made by the gulls flying overhead or perching on rooftops or railings. It always seemed to come from above and never when the gulls were strutting around foraging for food. As well as gulls overhead there were groups of them on the sea grass near the mud cliff facing the wind and in constant motion with gulls arriving and others taking off. Roddy recognized the herring gulls and the large black-backed gulls that were so common around the foreshore and the River. But it was not these that he was interested in but the few ducks that were shoving their broad bills into the short grass in search of food.
The tide was already on the turn and with characteristic speed it made its retreat, exposing wet shinning mud. The ducks began to move to the mud flats and were joined by some small, thin-legged birds that he decided, after much searching through the bird book, were dunlin and that they were common here. He had seen some of these birds before but had never known their name and it gave him a special satisfaction that he could now identify them and also knew something of their habits.
So, between making notes about the birds he saw and flipping through the pages of his new bird recognition book, time passed by quickly. He was able to recognize several other species, as he now knew to call them, and made notes in his book of the birds he had identified. The birds followed the retreating tide across the mud flats searching for food. He pushed his books into his bag and clambered over the sea bank and walked to the edge of the mud cliff. From there he was able to get a better view of the retreating birds, dunlin and redshanks, as they darted about, stopping to spear the mud with their long and delicate beaks and presumably, catching the small worms and crustaceans that lived just below the surface of the mud. Beyond the mud cliff were some areas of harder ground that supported clumps of grass and some of the birds were feeding on these patches of higher ground surrounded by the otherwise ubiquitous soft mud.
Steadily, and almost unconsciously, he began to work his way along the line of the mud cliff, stopping to watch and identify the birds, make notes and consult his bird book. In this way he moved further and further up the Channel coast into an area that he had never previously explored. The long stretch of sea washed grass in front of the sea bank itself was called a Wharf on the maps. The name had always intrigued him as he thought that a wharf was something that was used by ships when they wanted to load or unload cargo, and there was no way in which ships could use this stretch of coast for that. Deep water was well offshore and even small boats would never be able to maneuver in such a place.
On he went, stopping from time to time and constantly making notes, oblivious to time and distance, until he noticed that ahead of him there were a lot of gulls circling something large and dark coloured out on the mud. The gulls were excitedly calling to one another and their number was growing as if their cries were acting as a calling signal. He trained his field glasses on the large black mass that was so exciting the gulls but all he could make out was that it was large, black and slightly shimmering in the morning light. Whatever could it be, he thought.
Ahead was an inlet that cut across the sea grass plain and cut into the sea bank and the black mass with its circling gulls lay on the side nearest him. From his study of local maps he knew then that he had already reached a place called Longstreet Gout. His teacher had once talked about this in a history lesson and mentioned that large flat-bottomed boats would sail in here and that there was probably a lot of smuggling of brandy and other valuable contraband taken off ships in the Channel. It was a romantic story that had always intrigued him and he had long wanted to come here but there had never been the time, or the Gang wanted him to join them on some other adventure instead. Now, without even planning it, he had finally arrived.
Reaching the top of the mud cliff closest to the giant black mass, he paused and took out his binoculars again. This time he was close enough to overcome the poor magnification of these cheap glasses. What he saw astounded him. Ahead, stretched across the mud about a hundred or more yards offshore, was a giant black creature with a huge gaping mouth and a very large fin sticking up into the air. A whale. He had never seen one before in his life, but he had seen pictures and he had heard and read stories such as the one about Jonah, which a grown-up had read in a Sunday school class. At school his teacher kept all sorts of interesting books in the small cupboard at the back of the classroom, and in there he had found an illustrated book about a ship that hunted for whales.
This was most certainly a whale and, for some reason it had become stranded on the mud flat. It was huge and the growing flock of seagulls circling and screeching overhead, looked like tiny sparrows in comparison. Roddy just stood there stunned, not knowing how to react to such an overwhelming sight. Was the whale in trouble? Did it need help? Should he run and raise the alarm? Alarm about what? He had left home this morning expecting to just watch and identify birds. Now he was confronted with something that was not only completely unexpected but almost beyond his comprehension. Would people believe him if he told them that he had seen a whale? In his experience, grown-ups were almost always disbelieving of anything that children said. The common response from an adult on being told anything that was out of the ordinary or foreign to their experience was a raised eyebrow and a snort of disbelief and dismissal. If you were lucky they would tell you that they were coming to “see for themselves”, as if your young eyes were not to be trusted.
So, for a while he just stood there, wracked by indecision. It suddenly struck him that he should have brought his camera with him. It was not much of a camera and absolutely useless for photographing birds that just came out as dots and smudges; barely recognizable even as birds. His aunt had found it in a wardrobe and he had repaired the broken catch and used it a few times, but it was so old-fashioned that he was a little embarrassed to be seen with it. Some of his friends had nicer and more modern looking cameras, and a boyfriend of his sister had something that was very modern and complicated with interchangeable lenses. In comparison, the simple black box camera, for that was its embarrassing name, looked like some relic and he did not use it much now. But today it would have been perfect. The whale was large enough, and it was stationary, so that he could walk around it and get the best angle for a photo. He was sure that the creature would leave on the next tide and then nobody would believe what he had seen.
Roddy continued to look through the field glasses but slowly he realized that he could not just ignore this stranded animal and walk away. If he did that his conscience would make him feel as if he had met a challenge and failed. He needed to get close to this huge thing and find out more about it. Doing that by himself was a little scary for although he knew that it could not move and harm him, or at least that was most unlikely, this would be the first time that he had ventured onto the mud flats alone and his recent experience had shown him how dangerous they could be. He scanned the shinning mud between himself and the beached whale and reassured himself that it was still quite early and the tide was still ebbing. Yes, he could do this he decided and immediately began to strip of his shoes and socks. He found a way down the mud cliff, remembering to carry his haversack with him, and set off toward the whale. After the expedition to the wrecked plane, he found that he felt quite comfortable walking across the mud. He curled his big toes down and used it them dig in to the mud and stop him from sliding.
The whale was not as far offshore as the plane wreck and it did not take long to reach it. The noise of the gulls was deafening and he was afraid that they might become so excited that they would begin to dive at him. After the incident with the magpies, he did not want to be attacked by birds again. The danger from the gulls was less frightening but the noise was more overwhelming than during his encounter with the magpies. With so many excitable gulls wheeling overhead, there were splotches of white bird dung everywhere and he could hear the splat of new squirts of white seagull dung hitting the wet mud around him. The first thing that he noticed was the smell. The whale was already giving off a pungent odour and he wondered if it were already dead. It was lying in a shallow depression that held seawater and at first he was nervous about walking through it to get close to the great beast. Walking around the edge of the pool of seawater, he examined the whale as best he could. It was huge and he attempted to measure it by pacing out along its side. He knew that if he made long strides he could pace out about a yard, so he now began to pace alongside the whale with long even strides. When he reached the huge tail he had counted 21 strides, which he multiplied in his head to arrive at the astounding number of 63 feet. Never in his life had he seen an animal so huge. Standing near the whale’s tail he looked along the length of the great beast, mute and immobile in its shallow pool of water, its skin still shinning in the early light and felt an urgent desire to touch it.
Although the whale was immobile somehow, through its taut blackness, it still projected a sense of massive power. Here was a monster that once feared nothing, roaming the seas aloof to any threat, surging about its business without a thought for danger and contemptuous of the sea life surrounding it. Now, sadly this haughty monarch of the deep lay powerless and dying in a shallow pool of muddy water. How could such a thing happen? What force had so deranged this magnificent animal that it deserted its home in the deep ocean to end up in a muddy estuary, a turbid byway of the magnificent blue seas. Was it trapped in the fast current of the Channel, so feared by sailors and fishermen, or overwhelmed so that it lost its bearings until all that it could feel was the sucking drag of the glutinous Channel mud. Thrashing and twisting to escape the poor whale suddenly found that the very waters that encompassed its entire world had suddenly abandoned it to the cold pre-dawn light of a flat alien world of mud and screeching birds.
Walking back from the tail to the head of the whale, he recounted his strides and came up with a slightly larger number. Despite his crude survey methods, he still found that he was looking a something over 60 feet long, which was much bigger than anything that he had yet encountered in the natural world. Although awed and even somewhat frightened of this animal he wanted to get closer; feel its flanks and the curve of its mouth and the strange hairy curtains that hung from its jaws and look into its eyes. He waded carefully into the water and approached the whale’s mouth. The pungent fish-like smell was overwhelmed by the sour odour coming from the mouth. He had to step back as the vile smell was starting to make him retch. Looking back toward the tail and the large notched fin on its back he noticed that the eyes were open. He moved cautiously toward the head of the whale and, looking closely, it seemed that the whale’s dark oleaginous eye was looking at him with an unwavering gaze. Or perhaps it was looking at the sky and the circling birds and wondering what had happened to its world?
Roddy looked away and then back again; the eye had not moved but he sensed that the great whale could see him and was aware of his presence. He remembered a teacher talking about the importance of looking someone directly in the eye and that you could detect the truth of a person by doing so. Looking at the whale’s great eye he thought of this and tried to discover any sense, any recognition or perhaps the slightest of movements that could tell him about this animal. Nothing moved; not a blink or a lowering of the eyelid that would indicate recognition. Yet, as he continued his gaze he thought that there was something. Somehow it seemed that the beast was aware and the look in his eye spoke of terrible sadness and sorrow as if there was a recognition that its time had come and it was taking one last survey of the world.
Contemplating that great unwavering eye he was overwhelmed by surge of sadness and sympathy as he realized that he was the sole sentient witness to the final moments of the life of a magnificent creature.
He thought of the span of this whale’s life; from its birth in the ocean, perhaps swimming at its mother’s side, learning and marveling at all it saw, to the time when it was ready to strike out on its own and roam the oceans, feeding, diving, playing. Did it have a mate? Were there small whales out there that could relate to this creature as child to parent? Roddy accepted his ignorance of the life of these lords of the ocean and some of its greatest creatures, but he thought that he could detect something and that there was a great sadness within that whale. A sadness that also flowed through him and caused tears to squeeze from his eyes and track down his cheeks in sympathy, yes and there was even a choke of regret, a small sob that perhaps the whale could hear for it seemed to shudder slightly, or was that just a blurring of his vision brought on by the welling tears.
Suddenly his thoughts were full of the idea of saving this creature. Perhaps it could survive until the next tide and be pushed out to sea so that it could escape. He imagined how it might be, people standing in the water up to their waists and pushing in unison until the whale felt the lift of the waves and smelled its way to deep water and with a thrash of its tail that sent it rescuers tumbling over in the sea it would begin to move, slowly at first, then faster and more smoothly, gliding with slow undulations into the deeper water and the promise of a renewed life. Behind the head of the whale he had noticed an indentation and he suddenly remembered that whales could breathe air. They took on great gulps of air and then dived for long periods. He thought of his diving at the swimming pool. Holding his breath in competition with his friends to see who could swim the furthest without coming up for air. Whales did that and when they surfaced they blew the air out and just as he did upon surfacing in the pool, immediately took a gulp of new air that cooled the burning lungs. So, perhaps the whale could survive until the next tide, especially if people could help keep its skin cool. He looked up at a sky that was clear and pale blue in the early light. The sun’s rays were still slanting and it would be some time before the sun would be high enough and its rays sufficiently strong to burn the skin of this creature.
Longstreet village could not be far away and someone there might help. He decided that he must try to find help and so trudged and slid his way back to the shore and clawed up the mud cliff to where he had left his shoes. There was no time to clean his feet properly so he decided to remain shoeless and as long as he was walking on the grass of the sea bank he hoped that it would be relatively painless. From the top of the bank he could survey the surrounding country. In the fields behind the bank the last wisps and skeins of mist were retreating back to the reed beds in the reens and the early sun was casting long shadows across the fields. The subtle shadowing caused by the shallow runnels across the fields were now gone, replaced by a rectangles of green punctuated by clumps of high grass and pockets of tall weeds. He could hear the metallic throb of a distant train on the line that was many miles away and out of sight behind the hedgerow trees that perspective made more massive and thick than they really were. He scanned the surroundings to find a familiar feature that could fix his location and finally, there to his left he saw the tower of Longstreet Church. The village would be nearby and it would have a telephone box that he could use.
The path and the bridge across the reen that led to Longstreet village must be close by. The village was familiar to him, as he and his friends would occasionally ride their bikes along the coast road that ran through it on their way to the Broadway reen where they liked to fish. It was a small village with just an inn called The Bell and a few houses, some of which were clustered around the old church, but most were on either side of the road and the village was therefore a long and narrow one. The houses were all on the other side of the reens that ran along each side of the road. To reach the houses there were small bridges built of brick that took the driveways from the road to garages at the side of the houses. Roddy had always admired these little brick bridges and thought it would be very satisfying to live in a house that had its own bridge at the bottom of the drive. Rather like an entrance to a medieval moated-house or a castle.
To get to Longstreet village he had to find the path from the sea bank. Ahead of him was the inlet of the sea that was called Longstreet Gout. Near to the sea bank, this was lined with timbers, now partially rotted away and at its head, set in the sea bank, was a large pipe with a heavy black metal cap on it. The cap attached by a hinge at the top of the pipe and was partly open allowing a stream of clear water to cascade down onto some large rocks and lumps of concrete that must have been put there to break the force of the water and stop it from washing away the mud. Roddy ran along the bank and saw that behind it was a wide reen, one that was much wider than ones he was used to, which fed into the large pipe.
He looked for some way across and noticed a path that led down the landward side of the sea bank and across a narrow wooden bridge over the reen. At the end of the bridge was a stile, and beyond it an earthen path that lead past the church. Long ago he had been inside this ancient church with his sister B and had seen the mark in the wall commemorating a great flood that centuries ago had crested the sea bank and inundated the countryside behind. The main road through the little village ran in front of the church.
There was no time to put on shoes and besides his feet were still mucky from walking over the foreshore. Running as fast as he could on his tender feet he reached the road. Nobody was about on the road and it was still too early for churchgoers, so he sat on one of the little bridges and dipped his dirty feet into the water and washed off the mud. Drying his feet as best he could by dragging them through the grass, he pulled on his socks and shoes. Feeling in his pockets for some change with which to make a phone call from the red phone box that stood in the parking area in front of the Inn, he was dismayed to find that they were empty. He had to find someone to tell his tale about the stranded whale and ask them to call for help. It would not take many hours for the sun’s rays to start burning the whale’s flesh, and although no zoologist, he knew instinctively that an animal that was unused to anything but the sea would not have any protection against the burning rays of the sun. Having once suffered badly from sunburn after a day at the beach, he was sensitive to the pain that it caused.
The entire village was utterly deserted with not a soul out on the road and not even the sound of an approaching motorcar. Although he looked closely at the houses for signs that people might be up and about, the entire place appeared to be empty and silent as if it had been put under a fairy tale spell that sent all its inhabitants into a deep sleep.
Frantically he ran along looking for someone to ask for help before he heard the noise of windows being opened at the Inn. Someone was inside and was opening up the windows along the front of the building. Running across the empty road, he banged on the heavy wooden front door taking care not to hit one of black iron studs set into it. He had long admired this place with its whitewash exterior and bay windows with panes of leaded glass, some sporting thick round centers that reminded him of the bottom of a pop bottle. Passing by on the dark evenings, the bright lights inside sent warm inviting beams and flashes through the lopsided windows. He used to wonder if it was once a place for smugglers to meet and discuss how to smuggle brandy, silk cloth and other contraband from ships that were waiting on the tide to take them up to Bristol. On evenings when the Channel fog was flowing over the sea bank and the sound of the foghorns on the lightships in the Channel were at their most ghostly, the Inn would appear as a warm diffuse glow through the thick sea mist. On those nights Roddy could imagine that he was back in a different century and that it was a night for secret meetings and the muffled sound of horses, their hooves wrapped in sacking, making their way to the head of the Gout to meet the smugglers wherry that had sailed in under the cover of the fog.
It was some time before his knocking was answered and he was startled from his reverie about smugglers when finally, the door opened and out poked out a head wrapped in a cloth turban and the voice from beneath it shouted at him that the Inn was closed. Before the turban could withdraw and the heavy black iron-studded door close, Roddy was able to blurt out something about the whale and the need for help. The turban darted forward a little and looked up to reveal a face that was full of surprise and disbelief, but his anguished appeal for help stayed her hand for just a moment, enough for him to tell her more and pique her curiosity sufficiently for her to open the door wider.
“Whatever are you talking about? There ain’t no whales around here, just the usual Pollock and flatfish that the local boys catch and bring here sometimes. Phew, whale, whoever heard such nonsense. It’s a bit early in the day for you to be playing tricks, young boyo”.
Roddy protested that there indeed was a whale and that it was stuck in the mud and help was needed to get it to float out on the next tide, and quickly. All he wanted was for her to just let him call the police and ask for their help.
“No use calling the police, they will take for ever to come out to Longstreet. Go and talk to Rhys down at the Church cottages, he might be able to help. He likes to do some fishing and he potters about down there in the mud and muck. Go on, off with you, he lives in the cottage by the church with all them flowers in the front garden”.
With that the big black door with its heavy black metal hinges and studs closed with a loud and final-sounding thud. A sixth sense told him that the turbaned woman would not reopen it even if he thumped and banged for ages. So, frustrated, he turned and made his way through the still sleeping village, silent but for the birds who were singing and flitting through the garden shrubs and, in the distance, the low mooing calls of cows who would have finished the morning milking and were now following their leader to new and tasty pastures.
He soon found the house that the “turban” had referred to, as the garden in front of the house was a mass of flowers and the scent in the still moist morning air was intense overwhelmed all else. Early rising bees were already at work harvesting the soft sweetness of the blazing garden and their buzzing provided a lazy monotonous background music to this florid scene.
Still, there was no sign of anyone being awake in the cottage and he was reluctant to go to the front door and knock. Somehow doing that to a more public building such as the Inn did not bother him but here he felt as if he were breaking into someone’s morning privacy. He could imagine that whoever lived there would be only half awake perhaps and still sinking into the softness of sleep from time to time. A knock on the door would be like a klaxon call that would ruin the perfect balance of the morning. Then he remembered the whale out there on the mud flats, already starting to dry out beneath the desiccating rays of the sun. Impelled by that thought he opened the gate and marched up to the front door with determination and was raising his arm to knock as he climbed the front step when, surprisingly and sharply, the door swung open to reveal a rather small white haired man with a smile on his brown leathery face. This was a man of the outdoors judging by that skin texture and, from the smile on his face, one who apparently was happy to greet the day and all that it should bring.
“I saw you come over the sea bank and into the village a while ago and I wondered what you were up to. Never seen you before in these parts. What do you want me for?”
Roddy blurted out the story of finding the whale and the need to gather some help to try to save it by getting it into the next tide so that it could swim away. His frustration at not finding some help quickly was making him speak quickly and with force. The man looked at this hectoring stranger on his doorstep and smiled but the smile faded when he began to understand the message that this young boy was bringing. He nodded and asked some questions about exactly where he had seen this “whale” and what condition it was in. As Roddy spoke the disbelief that showed as a slight crinkling around the man’s mouth as he pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, began to ease and the wrinkles of doubt flattened and faded.
“ A whale you say, well I find your story difficult to believe but my dad once told me of something similar happening a long time ago. I have never seen it myself but this sounds very interesting. Show me where this ‘whale’ is”.
Roddy’s frustration level intensified. He could almost feel the distress that the whale must be feeling by now.
“Can’t we just call for help straightaway. The poor creature may not last beyond the next tide and we shall need lots of help to get a rope around it and have boats ready to pull in back into the Channel”.
The man looked at him with patient steadiness in his gaze as if he were confronting a partly crazed person, and explained that he could not just call for help based upon news from someone that he had never met before, even if he was inclined to trust that person. He really needed to go and see for himself, after all he knew this area well and had fished in the Channel and knew its tides and currents intimately.
So, after the man had gone inside and found his wellie-boots and a coat, they set off for the path that led to the sea bank. By now the morning was swelling rapidly; the sun was higher and hotter and the birds were busy flying along the hedgerows finding food and keeping out of sight from the sparrow hawks that were awaiting the unwary bird that broke cover, and could be swooped up for breakfast. The skeins and tendrils of the morning mists had long evaporated and instead of the smell of cool damp air, the grass was already perfuming the air with its sweetness. As the day wore on the smell would subtly change as the flowers in field and hedgerow added their languid scents to the air. All around the light and warmth and the strong smell of grass told of life in its full flood and Roddy found it saddening to think that within all of this lusty aura of life, a creature was slowly sliding into death, unless, unless that is, they could summon help and save it. He was convinced that it could be saved and he turned to the man walking beside him to ask what he thought when he suddenly realized that he had not told this stranger anything about himself and why he was out on the foreshore at that time of day.
“I’m Roddy, by the way, and I live in the Village, near the City. I was out very early this morning bird watching and that’s when I saw the whale stranded on the mudflats. I had never seen a whale before and I don’t know what species it is”.
The man continued to walk briskly and turned his head quickly to look at him. “My name’s Rhys”, he said, “ I have lived in Longstreet all of my life and I know the wildlife and the fishing like the back of my hand. I used to fish on the foreshore for salmon when the runs were good. We used to go out as the tide was ebbing with our nets and scoop up the fish that were trapped in some of the deeper pools. If we were lucky we would catch several and I used to sell the catch to the Inn in Longstreet. It was best during the war when meat was rationed and fish was in great demand. We fishermen, who knew the old methods and where to go to catch the fish that were most popular, made a lot of money then. Some wide boys from the City tried to muscle in on the business but soon gave up when they found out how hard it was and then they lost a few people who ventured out onto the mudflats when the tide was not right for fishing, lost their way and were caught by the currents. It takes a long time for to learn how to fish in the Channel young man. The tides are fast and very dangerous and even the old hands get into trouble sometimes. Now sadly, most of the old fishermen have passed on and the knowledge of the old ways is slowly being lost”.
At that he fell suddenly and completely silent, for as he had been talking they had crossed the footbridge over the reen and climbed the sea bank and he had his first sight of the whale. For a moment he just stood in silence looking at the cloud of screeching gulls, circling above the vast black bulk of the whale.
“Well, I’ll be buggered”, Rhys said softly to himself and he put his hands on his hips and stared at the great creature while making a low whistling noise through his teeth. “You are right young man, it is a whale and a bloody big one. I don’t know how we are going to save something that big. It would take a crane to move it and there is no way to get a crane out here. Come on, let’s go back and raise the alarm”.
Rhys turned and started to walk very fast, back toward Longstreet. He was already down the bank and charging across the plank bridge over the reen before Roddy could react and follow. The energy in the man surprised Roddy who was used to adults moving with great deliberation if not sluggishness. At least that is how it looked to someone who was used to his friends darting this way and that, like leaves in a gale. He ran down the bank, almost slipping on the fresh juicy grass, so different to the dry grass of late March. Once on the flat, he ran and almost fell over the stile before catching Rhys.
“Where are you going? He said between great sucks of air. Catching this seemingly old man had required more effort that he expected.
“ Old Harry at the Inn has a telephone and I know someone will be there now as they always have to clean the place on a Sunday morning after all the mess folks make on a Saturday night.”
“ I already went there and some woman in a strange turban didn’t believe that I was telling the truth”.
Rhys gave a short laugh. “Hah! That would be old Victoria that we call picky Vicky because she’s always telling people what to do and pointing out their mistakes. Bit of a busybody with a short temper, but she’s all right once you ignore her irritating bits. She calms down when she sees that you are ignoring her. I can handle her.”
Rhys was moving quickly and Roddy suddenly realized that this strange man was as concerned about the fate of the whale as he was. A few people were out of their houses now and poking and possicking about in their front yards, or looking at the sky. One man was holding his cup of tea and staring around. When he saw Rhys he called out.
“What’s up butty. You seem to be all of a bustle about something”
Rhys called back, “Whale beached on the flats over by the Gout. I’m calling for some help. If we leave it there the stink will drive us all from our homes.”
The man jerked in involuntary surprise and spilled his tea all over his trousers. Roddy could not help a quick smile. The man had looked so smug as he stood there and now he would be annoyed as those were probably his church-going trousers. No time to look however, as Rhys was still walking quickly toward the Inn.
This time the turbaned witch opened the door a little more and once Rhys had demanded that she call Harry, the landlord of the Inn, she disappeared muttering beneath her breath to find him. Harry appeared in a cloud of curses and with his arms trying to find their way through his braces that were clearly still attached to his trousers from the night before. Roddy was surprised at this level of sloppiness in an adult. He thought that neatly folding all clothes and unbuttoning of braces and the detaching of all belts from trousers was a requirement before going to bed.
Rhys talked briefly to the landlord and then they all went inside where they were enveloped in the sweet and slightly yeasty smell of old beer mixed with the smells of dust and furniture polish; a comfortable combination in Roddy’s experience as it reminded him of relaxation, humour and enjoyment. The turbaned lady was in the bar to their left busy with polishing and vacuuming. Today must also be the day on which the numerous pieces of brassware were polished as many horse brasses were piled on one of the small tables and Roddy could detect the sharp metallic tang of brass cleaner.
The situation was so novel that neither Harry nor Rhys was really sure of whom to call for help and they had quite a discussion before deciding on the police. Rhys had suggested this from the beginning but Harry seemed to have a mistrust of policemen and was desperately offering alternatives. Unfortunately, this being a Sunday, none of Harry’s alternatives were available whereas the police were always there. Harry took the phone and dialed the number for the police and waited for the call to connect before handing the phone to Rhys.
“Hello, is this the police? – brief silence—I am calling to report a beached whale on the flats at Longstreet— longer silence – I know it’s a whale because I have seen it – some crackling on the line—Well, we need to do something because it will be high tide again this afternoon. If we can’t float it away it will stink to high heaven if we just leave it there in this heat—silence and then muffled expostulations could be heard through the earpiece next to Rhys’s ear—Well, surely you people must know someone to call and ask. After all you are the police and someone somewhere must have dealt with this sort of situation before—–more muffled explosions could be heard through the earpiece. Rhys turned to Harry with a look of exasperation.
“I told you they was useless, didn’t I”, said Harry, seemingly satisfied that he had predicted that the police would be of no help.
Rhys just gave him a toss of his head and turned to the wall and began to speak sharply and quickly into the mouthpiece. Roddy was not able to follow all that he said but he got the gist of it which was to the effect that he didn’t care that it was a Sunday and many of the police were off for the day, they needed help now and the bugger needed to get off his arse and start calling people to work out what to do. If he didn’t call back within half and hour, Rhys threatened to call the local Justice of the Peace who, Rhys said, was a good friend and lived just up the road in St. Brides. So, Sunday or not just get on with it. Then he put the phone down, hard. Harry looked at him and then at the phone with a glance of sharp inquiry as if Rhys had broken a precious beer glass.
“So, what‘r they goin’ to do then”
“I’m not sure,” said Rhys, “but the useless git in the police station is going to call his superiors and ask them which authorities can help. I don’t know what they will do. We may have to solve this ourselves”
“What do you mean, ‘solve it ourselves’, how the hell are we going to do that?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Rhys shortly with an exasperated breath. “I think we should get some of the men from the village and go and take a look at it. Maybe they will have an idea.”
So, leaving a startled Harry behind them, Rhys gave Roddy a little shove and they were through the front door of the Inn in a trice. As they left they heard a cackle from the lounge as the turbaned witch laughed and shouted over the fresh whine of a vacuum cleaner getting ready to suck up dust.
“Bloody whales, whoever heard of such in our little village.”
Rhys was walking quickly and Roddy had to lengthen his stride to keep pace. They made their way back to the footpath past the church, but this time Rhys took a sharp turn to the left into the garden of one of the cottages. This garden was quite neglected compared to Rhys’, whose garden had a neat lawn and carefully managed beds of flowers with the soil between the flowers heaped up as if recently turned over during weeding. In contrast this garden had a lawn that was infested with weeds and flowerbeds that were sadly bedraggled and with fresh weeds pushing up everywhere. Rhys banged vigorously on the front door and stood in front of it with an easy familiarity. It opened and revealed the strangest looking man that Roddy had ever encountered. He was only half dressed and unshaven, looking very much as bedraggled as the garden, but it was his head that was amazing, surprising and shocking. It was huge compared to his body and topped by an unruly haystack of red hair. Hair grew abundantly from the man’s ears and also his nose. It was as if he was being taken over by hair. The enormous head rested on a thick neck and a large gangling body. This was a hirsute giant but one that was gangly and ill put together.
Rhys just said, “Jack, we need your help now. Come on, and bring your stuff as we’ll need it out on the mud.” The great gangling giant just nodded and went back into the house, reappearing a few moments later in a jacket. Rhys nodded toward the enormous rubber boots that stood not far from the door and said curtly, “bring those, you’ll need ‘em”. Jack was already kicking off a pair of soft slippers and stuffing his large feet into the enormous rubber boots, jumping and stamping to get his feet inside them. Then he disappeared briefly around the side of the house and when he came back it was with a large bag that he slung over his shoulders and two large rectangular boards with rounded corners that were turned up at the ends and had an arrangement of straps and buckles in the middle. Roddy had never seen anything like these before and could not work out what use they were and why Jack was bringing them.
So, now there were three of them walking in single file along the track toward the sea bank that reared up in front of them. The sun’s rays were strengthening and Roddy could feel the heat on his back and left side as they walked. He feared for the poor whale which must be in agony by now as it had no way of staying cool when not covered by water. Sadly he realized that it was unlikely that they could ever save this great and wonderful beast that had washed in on the early morning tide. Power and strength were of little worth if they could not be used, and all of the whale’s powers and its strength were not designed for surviving a beaching on a barren mud flat on a remote and featureless coastline. As they crested the bank and could see over the expanse of mud flats the noise of the gulls circling the whale hit them. It seemed to Roddy that they were even more excited than they were when he left them to seek help. Jack stopped, put his hands on his hips and whistled at the sight before him. Rhys too stopped and surveyed the scene but his gaze was focused on assessing what, if anything could be done.
He turned to Jack. “What do you reckon then my Jack, have you ever seen anything like this in your life. I certainly haven’t and I don’t think that I shall see the likes of this again either”.
Jack just nodded silently as he looked first at the whale and then at the mudflats and lastly at the Gout that led from the great valve that controlled the outflow from the reen. Water was streaming through the valve that bounced in the vigorous flow and splashed onto the mud and rocks below before running out toward the Channel. The Gout itself was a channel that ran straight for a short distance between high banks that were built out from the outlet and supported by large wooden piles. Then, released from its confinement, it began to wander over the mudflats carving a sinuous course toward the deeper waters of the Channel.
“I suppose that I could bring a boat up to the Gout on the incoming tide and we could run a line from the bugger’s tail to the boat and see if it can be shifted. I suppose that it will float, and as long as there is enough water under ‘im we could perhaps float ‘im out to the deeper water. If the bugger’s dead though we shall just have to hope that the wind stays in the east as it is now and that we don’t get a sou’wester blow that would just bring it back to the shore.”
Rhys nodded. “Let’s go and take a good look at ‘im then and we can see what to do. From the way that useless copper was talking I don’t expect much help from that direction and I don’t think that there will be anyone else willing to come out on a Sunday morning.”
Once more Roddy had to take of his shoes and socks. Both Rhys and Jack were in large rubber boots, or wellies but before descending the path over the mud cliff, Jack gave two of the large wooden boards to Rhys and put the other two under his arm. At the foot of the mud cliff, they strapped these to their feet, stood up and strode out on the mudflats using a sliding gait. He hurried after them, remembering to use his toes to stop himself from sliding, but even with this trick he almost lost his balance several times while Rhys and Jack just strode on without breaking stride. They soon reached the whale and began to look at it closely. Roddy could see that the whale’s skin looked much drier than when he had first seen it. There had been no movement by the whale at all as the muddy pool around it was unchanged since early this morning and there were no marks, such as Roddy would have expected from any movement of the fins. He walked up to the head of the beast to see if its eyes were still open. They were but as he looked closely he was sure that they had dulled considerably since he had last looked. It was if the life was draining from the creature and the light was fading slowly from its eyes. Roddy looked into the dull black pool of those eyes and was overcome once more by a great feeling of sadness and loss. His eyes began to mist over as he struggled to understand the cause of this unexpected emotion. Yes, he loved animals and had never wanted to be cruel to them and had indeed become very angry and emotional when he saw or heard of someone mistreating their pet dog or cat. He had read stories of young urchins tormenting dogs by tying cans with stones inside to their tails and then standing and laughing as the poor animal was driven to distraction by this rattling thing that followed its every twist and turn. Stories like that sickened him and made him feel angry inside; a deep burning anger that made him clench his teeth and pull his hands into tight fists. Yet he had never had any qualms about catching and killing fish and eels. He had never looked into the bright eyes of a fish and felt any emotional bond and yet here he was looking into the eye of the whale and feeling as if he were looking into its thoughts and detecting the great sadness that this enormous sea mammal felt at its hopelessness and the inevitability of death.
He felt that someone was by his shoulder and turned to see Rhys standing there silently and, like him, looking steadily into the eye of the whale. Rhys too saw the presage of death in the animal’s sad and helpless gaze. Tears that had just been misting and stinging Roddy’s eyes until now began to run down his cheeks and along his jaw until they dripped off and into the mud. Crying was always frowned upon by the members of the Gang, even in cases of great distress such as when someone fell from a tree. As long as something was not obviously broken or badly cut the expectation was for the person to fight back tears. Yelling, swearing, shaking and running around were all acceptable reactions but not crying. He should have felt shame perhaps, but he did not and made no attempt to hide his tears from Rhys or from Jack, who had joined them in silent communication with the dying fish.
“I’m afraid that he’s done for lad,” said Rhys gently. “The poor creature must have had something wrong with it to get so frazzled as to swim up the Channel and come aground in this ‘ere mud. I’m not sure but from what I have read and seen, this one might be a fin whale. They are supposed to be one of the biggest whales and this one is certainly big. They also call them the greyhound of the seas ‘cause they are so fast. It’s a sad day when such a lovely beast as this ends up dying in the stinking mud surrounded by gulls screaming and screeching for the end to come so as they can feast on the poor creatures flesh. Unfortunately they will probably attack the eyes first and it’s not a pretty sight when they does that.”
Jack nodded his head in agreement and said that he would go and get his skiff ready as he did not trust the tide to float the dead creature out to sea again and, “if he stays ‘ere through one more tide the stink will be so great that we’ll likely have to leave Longstreet for a few days.”
Rhys nodded in agreement. “There’s not much that we can do except see if we can get a line around that tail so that we can give it a pull with your skiff when the tide is in.”
He looked at his watch and moved his lips silently as he calculated how many hours they had before the next high tide. “ I reckon that we can start to give it a pull before the tide is full and that should mean just about seven hours or less.”
Roddy looked at him in surprise. “What time is it now?”
“It’s past ten o’clock young lad. Why you look worried. What’s up with you then.”
“My parent’s will be wondering where I am. I left the house this morning just before dawn without telling anyone where I was going and what for. My Mother will be worried by now and it will take me an hour to get home from here even if I ran most of the way. I had better get going straightaway.”
Rhys smiled and chuckled quietly. “Don’t worry too much young lad. I have an old van behind the house and I can give you a lift back to the Village in a bit. First we have to decide what to do here and I need to give Jack a bit of a hand.”
They turned back to look at the whale and noticed that the final light had faded from its eye, leaving it dull and lifeless. While they had been talking the great whale had finally died. All they could do now was try to get the carcass to float out to sea and save the nearby hamlet from the terrible smell that would sit over the place for days, or longer if the next tide just washed the carcass further up under the mud cliff. Already the cries of the gulls had become more strident and they were swooping fearlessly over the whale, oblivious to the two men and the young boy standing next to it. Roddy noticed that they gulls had been joined by crows who had flown in and were perched on the lumps of drier mud or further away on the wooden posts that grew from the slime alongside the Gout, cawing and watching for their chance to come in and join the feast. The entire atmosphere had changed in an instant from one of hope to despair. Despair at the death of the whale was unexpectedly overwhelming and he could not understand or explain the deep flush of sorrow that washed through him when he realized that there was no hope.
Rhys turned to Jack and said that they needed to put a line around the creatures tail while the tide was still out. The line could be taken back to the shoreline and secured until it was time to launch Jack’s boat and then it would be used to try to float the whale. The two men talked about ropes and pointed at the whale and the foreshore as they determined what Jack needed to do over the next few hours. Finally, satisfied with the arrangements he had made with Jack, he turned and told Roddy that he was ready to take him back to the Village in his old van.
“I hope that you aren’t too proud to ride in me old van lad. It isn’t much to look at but it will get us there, eventually.”
Roddy was too miserable to do more than nod and they started to make their way back to the shore. Jack was already on his way to get the line and a shovel so that he could dig under the fin of the whale and loop the line completely around the tail of the beast. The day had turned into a brilliant early summer’s day with a high bright sun and waves of fragrant heat coming off the sea grass beyond the shoreline. The carrion-lusting cry of the gulls gradually faded as they descended the far side of the sea bank and was replaced by songs of the birds that lived in the safety of the hedgerows and sang loudly to call new mates or mark their territory. In the distance the “coo, cooo” of wood pigeons wafted softly over the fields. A breeze was riffling the long grass that some farmer was leaving for the hay making and bringing the scent of the warm grass and wildflowers washing over their path. Roddy loved these warm, grass-scented days when the world seemed so at peace and yet today he had watched a great and handsome creature lose its grasp on life against this very same backdrop of peace, and warm tranquility. The contrast was jarring and he could not reconcile the contradictory images in his mind. Rhys was looking at him as he walked alongside; casting glances of mixed sympathy and curiosity.
“First time you have seen a creature die then, is it?”
Roddy nodded and tried to say something but his mouth was too dry and the final sobs were still fading inside him. He wanted to talk, to ask questions, but couldn’t find the will to do so.
“I know, it doesn’t seem fair for such a thing to happen to a great and powerful creature like that. You know that whales are mammals of course, or at least I hope that they taught you that in school, and that they have well developed brains. They say that whales can talk to one another in some sort of singing code. I don’t know if that is true, but it makes sense if they have a brain that they do more than just swim around aimlessly, so to speak.”
Roddy nodded and finally was able to say something in return. He told of the sadness that came over him so quickly and unexpectedly.
“You see, I was thinking so hard about getting help and rescuing the creature that I was not thinking about how I felt at all. So, when those feelings came over me so suddenly, it surprised me and I felt a sadness that I have never before experienced. I have seen dead animals before; sheep and sometimes cows and, of course, lots of birds including nestlings, but they were different to this. I dunno, I just can’t explain it.”
With that he fell silent again.
“Then don’t try,” said Rhys, “sometimes its better to leave some things alone for a while and let them sort themselves out. They will in time, I know as it has happened to me before. I’m still trying to sort out what happened to some of my mates in the last war and why them and not me. Some things never make sense, even when you have thought them through and through for years.”
Roddy caught the slight change in Rhys’ voice as he talked. It was softer, more wistful and less certain. It suddenly struck him that adults were not the hard, certain and apparently unworried persons that he had always thought them to be. He and his friends assumed that you grew less emotional with age and that uncertainty slipped away. Indeed that was his experience with adults with whom he normally interacted. For them life seemed to be determined and bounded by certainty. His Father for example, had always worked at the same job, as far as he knew, and would go on doing so. His world seemed fixed and resistant to change. Oh, he knew that his sisters would eventually be married like some of the other young women he saw in the village, but this seemed like just another stage that everyone would go through in their lives. Once married, their lives too would become stable and predictable, not at all like the life of a young boy who was subject to all sorts of anxieties and challenges from friends and potential rivals. Great embarrassments loomed during every waking hour and the ever-present threat of some humiliation occurring in front of friends. It was just not an easy existence, but all of a sudden and most unexpectedly, he caught a glimpse of something that he had not really understood before and he began to think about adults and their lives life in a slightly different way.
They had reached Rhys’ cottage but instead of going in through the front gate, he kept walking and then turned off down a rough grassy lane that lead to the back of the row of cottages and stopped in front of a black shed. No wood was visible on the exterior of the shed, though Roddy surmised that it was built of that. Instead, the entire surface of the shed, including the roof, was covered in stiff sheets of some material that had been nailed over the wood then covered with a thick coat of black tarry material. The hot sun was baking this black material and it was giving off the strong pungent odour of creosote.
“How do you like my old shed then, young lad. It may look ugly but it keeps everything inside dry. That’s all I ask of it.”
Rhys opened the front doors of the shed and they dragged over the grass and dirt in front, amplifying the curved grooves and scratches left by many previous openings. Inside it was dark as pitch and Roddy could just make out the rear of a small van. Rhys told him to stand to one side while he backed the van out and then he disappeared into the darkness. With a screeching of rusty hinges, Rhys opened the driver’s door and got in. Next came the rhythmic grinding whirr of an engine that was taking its time to start. It finally did and after some revving of the engine and some clashing and grinding noises, the van slowly emerged from the dark confines of the pungent shed. It sat in place for a short while as Rhys made the engine speed up and fiddled with something on the dashboard. Black, then blue smoke came out of the exhaust pipe and the smell of partially burned petrol was very strong.
It was the strangest vehicle that Roddy had seen as there was nothing like it on the roads today. The front had great round headlamps that sat on stalks fixed to the front mudguards and the van itself was quite square with two round windows on each side near the front. The windscreen was nearly vertical, not sloped back as was common in modern vehicles and the roof of the cab and of the van itself was of some sort of painted cloth material. It must have been a delivery van of some sort because the side was elaborately painted but with a crude rectangle of black paint covering what must have been the name of the business.
“Well, what do you think of her. She used to be a baker’s delivery van and I remember it being used by old Hoskins, the bread man to deliver to the village. He must have sold it after the war to a farmer up in the hills near the main road and I came across it when helping with some haymaking. The tyres were all cracked and perished and chickens had been laying eggs in the driver’s seat, but most amazingly, after getting a new battery for it and putting some oil in the cylinders, I was able to turn it over with the starting handle and drive it. I’ve been able to keep it going ever since, though every journey is an adventure that could easily end in the old van failing completely, miles from home. The missus won’t ride in the thing for any journey that takes us more than an hour’s walk from home. Says that she can manage to walk home if it’s just a few miles but she doesn’t want to be stuck somewhere out in the back of beyond. Come on hop in! We’ll get you home to your parents so they can stop worrying about you.”
So Roddy ‘hopped’ in and sat on a very worn and cracked leather seat. His feet rested on a floor made of wooden boards that were scuffed and deeply stained. The cab smelt strongly of greasy metal, engine oil and petrol and the noise of the engine was so loud that it was difficult to hear what Rhys was saying to him. The engine stuttered and occasionally roared as Rhys pressed the accelerator and fiddled with a knob that stuck out of the dashboard.
“She needs some choke when I start ‘er up but I have to be careful that I don’t leave it too long as the engine doesn’t like too strong a mixture once it is warmed up.”
With that, Rhys rattled and pushed at the tall gear stick until a grinding noise indicated that something was working and the old van started to move backward and he guided it into a gateway to a field, stopped it then went forward turning the steering wheel hard with both hands until the van was facing down the grassy lane and the journey began. Roddy had to hold on to the dashboard as the van bounced and lurched through the ruts and potholes of the lane. Once on the tarmac road the ride was a little smoother but the relative physical comfort was replaced by a high-pitched whining that seemed to come from beneath the floorboards. As they gathered speed this whirring and whining changed pitch as Rhys pushed the gear lever through several contortions and the old van accelerated. It reminded Roddy of the plays on the radio where the sound of cars always seemed to be represented by whirring engine noises and the crunch of changing gears.
Luckily the coast road between Longstreet and the Village was flat and mostly straight, so once up to speed, the old van’s engine did not have to struggle too hard. At intervals the coast road took a sharp turn and Rhys would change gear just before the turn causing the engine to whine even more loudly. They encountered a few cars going in the opposite direction and Roddy noticed that the driver and any occupants always swiveled their heads in surprise as they passed. It dawned on him that this old van looked most peculiar and that the looks on the faces of those swiveling heads must be of surprise closely followed by amusement. Suddenly he thought of what might happen when they arrived at his house and he began to feel quite hot as he imagined the potential for embarrassment. If any of his friends were out in the street, as was quite likely, they would see the old van wheeze and pop its way up the street and they too would look up and laugh. Then they would see him get out of it and their laughter would redouble. He would look foolish in front of them and that was one of the worst fears of any young boy. He couldn’t help think about it and the more he did so the more he felt apprehensive.
Rhys’ voice suddenly startled him and he realized that they had already passed over the Skew Bridge, so called because it passed over the railway line at an acute angle rather than at the normal right angle. The name had puzzled Roddy for some time until he looked up the meaning of the word and then it had made sense. Rhys was asking for directions to his house and so he began the litany of “turn left here”, and “just around the bend”, until they drew up in front of the house. He looked around but the Lane appeared empty and then he saw someone’s back disappear down the Lane toward the railway line and the fields where their den lay. This was his chance and he needed to dash out now and let Rhys and his ancient wreck of a van move on.
“Thank you Rhys for all of your help this morning and for the lift home.”
“Well that’s alright young lad, but hold on, don’t you want to come back to Longstreet when the tide is full to see if we can float the dead whale out to sea.”
“Weee’ll, yes, I suppose that I do,” stuttered Roddy caught by surprise as he had not been thinking of that, only the risk of being seen by his friends in this ancient excuse for a vehicle. “But I don’t know how I can get there except by cycling and I need to make sure that it will be alright with my parents you see. I would like to be there and see how you and Jack will do it.”
“Alright lad, I’ll expect to see you then. Don’t be late. High tide is around six this evening but we shall be trying to pull the whale out to sea before then, so be there on the early side.”
LAMBY MEMORIES 