1
Right now I’m cold. Really cold. What time is it? The pealing church bells tell me I have been here for several hours. I want to lie down and sleep, but my body won’t do it anymore. I think about going home, but memories of how I came to be on this hillside the first time, all those years ago. assail me. I fled my father’s house and family because of fear and found safety with Cory. ‘I am safe with Cory, I am safe with Cory, I am safe with Cory.’ That was what I knew then. I mutter the words over and over again to convince myself that I do not want to hear the other words, the ones I’m trying to unhear but which echo ever louder,
‘Come and live with me before he kills you.’
I am no longer sure where I am going. Nor who I should be going with. Just where do you go when you really don’t know where to go because you can’t trust your own instincts anymore, let alone take your own advice to quit while you can? I’m not safe with Cory, but he needs me, even more so after his latest escapade. How can I let him need me though if I am not actually safe with him? If he only needs me to harm me, then why can’t I just go where I am safe?
2
Viewed from up here on the cliff side the horizon stretches unbroken from farthest left to farthest right. A ship-high ribbon of glowing pinky-orange light separates the grey blue of the sea from the peachy blue of the sky as the dawn spreads. The pier immediately below me is a dark silhouette, stiff and crisp-edged as a cardboard cut-out. The only thing vying for my attention is the gentle shimmer of the first rays of sun off the mast of a yacht anchored in the middle of the bay.
Sitting on the bench reserved for those hearty enough to complete the trek this high, I have the world to myself. Few are the hearty at this time of day. There is a chill in the air and finding footholds to reach this height is still risky in the half-dark. Dawn brightens the sea and the sky as I watch. A light breeze chills the sweat on my forehead, the only sign of the steepness of my climb up here.
The clock on the church by the pier strikes seven. And, although I can’t see him, I know that Father Walter is opening the huge wooden doors preparing for a service of remembrance to be held later this morning. A minute or two passes and a bright blue and orange fishing boat appears in the bay. The Blue Boy is Cory Bradley’s boat. Or, rather, he was the Skipper until two days ago when he was found collapsed in a heap in the alley between The Ship Inn and the fish quay at four am. He had a nasty blow to the side of his head, could only groan when spoken to and had, apparently, no memory of anything. Jim Fairbord, who found him, called 999 at once, but it looked like Cory had been there a while and he felt very cold to the touch. The tutting about town is that he was drinking heavily in The Ferryboat Inn on the quay by the bay after unloading his catch around five the previous evening, and had declared himself on holiday on account of the storm coming in. Around midnight that same day, having taken a ‘phone call that seemed to sober him up dramatically, he told the assembled company that he was off to ‘…sort out some business with that silly bitch…’ Not for the first time in recent years he is now in the intensive care ward and, for the foreseeable future, it will be his nephew Harry, Cory’s assistant skipper, who lands any catches.
Cory met his future wife up here. A long time ago now and a lot of water has flowed under a lot of bridges since then. Eighteen and owning only the clothes she stood up in and the contents of the soft canvas bag at her feet, she looked to him like a lost flower girl, the kind of girl pictured on the front of a birthday card his sister Hester might choose. This girl was willowy, pale and interesting with an air of somewhere other than this place. Looking down at her feet he noticed her battered sandals and dusty toes and, glancing at the cliff path and then back at her feet again, his first words were full of admiration.
‘You climbed up here in those?’
‘Only ones I managed to grab. Used to them now.’
When he had not known what else to say, but had not moved away either, she had told him he was welcome to share the bench, but she didn’t want to talk about it. Thanking her, he had taken the weight off his feet and they had sat in silence for quite some time before he spoke again.
‘Not being funny or anything but you don’t come from round here, I’d know if you did, I’m Cory, who are you?’
‘Diane’
‘Pleased to meet you Diane…’
‘And you,’ she said, taking his offered hand before lapsing back into her own world.
Again the silence, this time broken vaguely by the breeze getting up. Cory waited then before adding, ‘I came up just to get a walk, now I’m away for my lunch at the Sidewinder Café–will you come with me? My treat.’
Their eyes met and, by and large, that, and a wedding with pageboys and flower girls in sailor suits at Father Walter’s church, sealed the deal for the next twenty odd years. Then the Blue Boy capsized.
The clock is striking nine. The wind is up still and I’m really feeling the chill now. So much to work through and I’m remembering that other February day, five years ago now. I was leaning on the railing on the promenade, as I often did, watching The Blue Boy bringing the boys home. There was always a moving coronet of seagulls above the boat, rising and falling above its fishy mass. What is it they say about rats and sinking ships? That grim winter’s day there were just two brave birds, battling the wind, rising and falling with the swell then, suddenly, rising and falling and not rising. They mirrored the trawler that had dipped and risen but was now listing, precariously and fast, as the hull wedged on to the sandbar. The next rush of the rising tide crashed through, and around, and over the boat, and I could not see how they would get out. I’d seen this scene before. It played regularly inside my head in the half-awake consciousness that will often strike the wife of any man who goes to sea. Time and my breathing stopped until, above the spume and spray, rose a cracking sound and a golden flare lit the sky.
At first, days were punctured by the beeps and whistles of the machines around him and I heard nothing beyond a few feet of the bed. The background drone was low and rhythmic, but persistent, the kind you only really notice when it stops, and the way in which the room let us know it was there, waiting patiently as must we. There was no lasting peace though. Turn by turn a drip and then a monitor, or pump, or a fan, would stutter, a shriek or beep would sound. Each time the lurch of a suspended breath restored - the kind of lurch I had experienced first as I watched from the promenade - would again bump my chest, until someone appeared to reinstate calm and my breathing shuddered on. Mostly, not a word was spoken. But, once a day at least, a white coat would stop awhile with an update. Mainly to say that there was nothing to report. Cory would, I was assured, wake up in his own good time. He was strong, but it was not just the blow to his head as he fell when the boat went over. He had had a heart attack too. They just weren’t sure what was affecting him most. A week in and Harry, who had had a luckier escape than Cory, felt strong again and he would join my vigil periodically. We might try a little light conversation, but he was still suffering the effects of the near drowning he’d endured as he pulled Cory from the hold and up to the lifeboat. Right now, even being in the room was a struggle for him.
‘What if he doesn’t make it?’
‘He will!’ I had to believe it. ‘He won’t give up, he won’t…’ An alarm sounded beside me. Harry rushed out as a nurse hurried in and shooed me out.
We colonised the three plastic chairs, yes, three, outside the ward and waited. Harry was shivering beside me to the left, despite a battalion of Victorian radiators lining the corridor walls. On the other side of me, Hester. But I can’t safely think about Hester just now.
Eventually, they came and ushered us into a side room. Blood pounding a relentless fuzziness through my ears, I barely registered the doctor explaining that Cory had now added a stroke to his list of injuries.
‘I must warn you that we just don’t know what the outcome will be. He might be perfectly fine,’ the voice did not sound convinced, ‘he is resilient, he’s a fighter… well, it’s all a matter of time and we will see...’
Somewhere, six whole months disappeared. In tiny chunks mainly, punctuated with travel to and from the house, eating and sleeping and, very occasionally, going to the office, or paying bills and doing housework. Cory woke up thirty seven days and fourteen hours after being admitted, and shortly after I had finished counting all the ridges on all the tiles making up the suspended ceiling of his side room. I wasn’t sure who had endured the most successfully. Cory had limited movement, as if his body had forgotten that it was made of moving parts; mine needed its joints oiled after all the hours spent in the one hunched position permitted by hospital furniture. It had seemed to me that keeping still and being vigilant was the only thing that would save him, or perhaps that was what I needed to save me. Either way, I figured, the worst was now over and we just needed to get rolling again. Time to go home and get on with life.
It took more long weeks, and a lot of hard work, before Cory actually came home. There was not a mark on him to record what had happened. To the world he was the same Cory. It was simply a matter that they had not seen him about for a while. That August bank holiday Harry took him to see the Blue Boy in the dockyard where it had gone for refit, having been salvaged off the back of a higher tide two days after the accident.
‘It was crazy,’ Harry reported, ‘he demanded to know why I sold his boat and when I reminded him it was just in the yard for repairs, not sold, he screamed at me that there was nothing wrong with it!’
‘He’s bound to be a bit confused. He doesn’t really remember the accident at all…’ It was a feeble response. I felt cold all over. I had had too many such conversations with him myself. That same night, with 3am half consciousness came the spectacle of Cory kneeling over me with a pillow held high above his head.
‘Get back, get out of my way, you’re suffocating me,’ he hissed.
This man was awake but was not Cory as I knew him. When I made no attempt to move, he lunged toward me with the pillow and, as I rolled sideways and out of his reach, he tumbled forward on to the bed and fell back to sleep. It took me much longer to find rest.
Five days ago a similar thing happened again. In fact, I have lost count how often this has been repeated now. I know he doesn’t mean it, I’m not even sure he realises half the times it happens. But my body is no longer so confident, just taut and wary.
I came up here to think it through, but it’s not working. The wind is getting worse. There are white tufts on the ripples on the sea. The blue grey sea is colonising the peachy blue sky, and yet another storm looks to be blowing in. Wrapping my jacket close around me, I stand, tentatively testing my tingling legs bent stiff for hours now. How ironic would it be to fall going down the cliff? Who would have what to say, particularly what would the town have to say then about Cory’s ‘silly bitch’? That she got what she deserved probably, the girl who came from nowhere and fancied herself one of them! Twenty or so years is not long enough to be one of them around here. Step by careful step, I descend the cliff. I will head for the promenade, watch the sea awhile and then I’ll decide.
3
A couple of hours later and Diane is thanking the gods that Hester’s not home. As she heads for the back stairs up to Hester’s first floor flat over Birdlip and Associates, Diane mentally notes that the rear gate still isn’t fixed, and the security light only flickers. It’s dark half way through the afternoon this time of year, good job she knows where she is going. There’s almost certainly someone in the office and she’s anxious to avoid needing to explain, yet again, how Cory is doing, or hearing how awful it is. Like I don’t know that already! Leaving a quick note for her sister-in-law she heads out, an excited black dog, Humph, at her heels.
A legacy of the past storm, and possibly a herald of more bad weather to come, for it is winter after all, the wind is gusting along the promenade between the beach huts and circling around the ice-cream stall as Diane, with Humph in tow, braces herself and pushes forward through the gloom towards the first bench she sees. The waves crash in front of her, hitting the sea wall then rolling back with renewed force to crash against those behind them sending spray shooting skywards.
‘A nasty night to be out in!’
Diane’s already shattered nerves cause her to start so hard she feels it as a thump in her gut.
‘Oh, you scared me!’ she says.
Susan Hardcastle’s face is a grin quickly rearranged into concern as Diane reacts.
‘Gosh, sorry, didn’t mean to make you jump, you must be so stressed out just now.’
Understatement of the year would be Diane’s assessment. ‘I’ve been better, just getting some fresh air, borrowed Hester’s dog.’
‘So I see dear, he’s a sweet dog, I was just on my way to give these to Hester…’
Why did I mention Hester? Really, she must be losing the plot, how not to draw attention to yourself. Not. - as the kids would say. She forces a smile and offers:
‘That’s nice.’ She’s losing patience with herself now. Pay attention, Susan’s still talking!
‘…keys for Cornfield Cottage, lock’s a bit stiff, needs pushing, but it’s ready to be let. Hester says she’s got a tenant for it for next week!’ Susan pauses briefly, as if expecting a reply, but one is not forthcoming. ‘I, I, I don’t suppose you could give these to her could you, I mean, you’ll be taking the dog back, I guess? I’d be so grateful, Pete needs his tea and I’m running late…’
Gathering her wandering thoughts, Diane has a brief vision of what going home with Humph might be like if home was with Hester, not Cory.
‘But, of course, Susan, no problem at all.’ Now she will have to see Hester. Well, so be it, they do have things to discuss, maybe it will help her decide. Susan is disappearing into the gloom with a wave and a final,
‘Thank you so much, I do hope there is better news soon, send Cory my best.’
Now, she needs to concentrate and get Humph back to Hester. Fishing in her pocket and producing a treat Diane looks down to reward him for his patience. Oh God, where has the escapologist gone now? In the gloom of the promenade the black Labrador is nowhere to be seen. She had her foot on his leash, didn’t she? Maybe she had, but not now. She looks around her feet. Nothing. There’s nothing in her hand either, except the treat and a set of keys – Susan’s keys that she has promised to give to Hester because the aptly named cottage in the cornfield on the edge of town is ready to be viewed. She allowed herself to be distracted by her jumbled musings, thought she could be helpful to Susan because she had to take the dog back to Hester’s anyway. And now there is no dog just keys. Humph has doubtless gone home in disgust. She’s spent most of his walk sitting on this bench and not letting him do anything, so he’s likely voted with his paws and made his own way home.
