Candles in the Storm by Rita Bradshaw

lasting so long. Her granny had remained silent when she’d said that.
     
    ‘I’m goin’ to have a look outside again.’
     
    ‘Oh, hinny.’ Her grandmother’s hand came out towards her in protest. ‘It’s still barely light, an’ you’ve already got soaked to the skin once the day. If you up an’ take a chill an’ I have to start lookin’ after you, it’ll be a case of the blind leadin’ the blind all right.’
     
    The last few words had been said in a jocular tone, but when Daisy’s tense expression didn’t change the old woman in the bed sighed deeply. She might as well have saved her breath, the lass would have her own way in this. It was no use saying that the boats were likely resting at Marsdon beyond Lizard Point or even Frenchman’s Bay if they’d got blown South Shields way, the lass wasn’t of a mind to hear it. Daisy wouldn’t rest until George and the rest of them were safely home, that was always the pattern of events.
     
    ‘I’ll be back in a little while. You all right for a few minutes? Drink your broth, Gran.’
     
    ‘Aye, I will, lass, but I wish you’d have a bite of somethin’.’
     
    ‘I will later, I promise.’
     
    It was actually a relief to step out into the bitter cold although the wind, stiffened with sleet, stung Daisy’s eyes as she immediately scanned the horizon. She was glad her granny didn’t openly fret when the boats were delayed, of course she was, but at times like today the old woman’s stoicism was almost irritating. Alf’s mam was more of a comfort on occasions like this; Enid Hardy was always at sixes and sevens until Alf was back, and moreover was vocal in her concern.
     
    Daisy picked her way over the mudbath that was the road, and on to the wet spiky grass dotted with pebbles and stones which led to the edge of the high bank below which stretched a long expanse of sand. She stood gazing out to sea as she had done earlier, praying soundlessly all the while. Let them come home, God. Let them come home. Let them come home. And then she turned as Enid Hardy came up behind her.
     
    ‘It’s not let up all night, lass, has it? An’ here was me thinkin’ the worst was over when the thaw started.’
     
    ‘Hallo, Mrs Hardy.’ Daisy smiled at the older woman, and Alf’s mother patted her shoulder for a moment before standing with her and following Daisy’s gaze out to sea.
     
    ‘I know fishin’ is fishin’ the country over an’ none of it easy, but I reckon our lads have it worse than most,’ Enid muttered, pulling her shawl more tightly about her face as the wind whipped the ends. ‘Do you know, lass, the first thing I can remember is the sound of the sea. There’s them that say it’s similar to the sound of your mam’s blood pulsin’ in her body afore you’re born, an’ that’s what makes it “comfortin’ ”! Comfortin’ ! Comfortin’ my backside, that’s what I say. I’d as soon take comfort from the devil himself. Right from a little bairn I’ve hated it, aye, I have, even in the summer when it’s pretendin’ to be pally.’
     
    Daisy nodded; she could understand Mrs Hardy speaking like this. She knew from her granny that Alf’s mam had first lost her father and two brothers and finally her husband to the capricious moods of the ocean.
     
    ‘I look at them pit villagers when they come for a plodge in the summer, messin’ about an’ splashin’ each other an’ larkin’ on, an’ they’ve got no idea what’s what. They buy the scones an’ cakes some of the old wives sell from their cottage doors, have a nice day in the sunshine, an’ go home thinkin’ they’re hard done by the rest of the year ’cos they don’t live by the sea.’
     
    ‘I wouldn’t want to go down a mine though, Mrs Hardy.’
     
    ‘Aye, aye, there is that, lass. It can’t be much fun down a mine for sure.’
     
    They stood together, the old woman and the young girl, without speaking now. It was a little while later when Daisy,