little bomb on the vicarage. The houses each side were scarce touched.”
“But… but…” Harry stared round the carriage. “They seemed so…” He couldn’t get it out.
“Alive? Aye, they’re here. If they’re anywhere. That’s why I keep the place on. They bought it to come and be near me, on their holidays. They were that happy here. Always laughing.”
“I’m sorry,” said Harry.
The old man put his hand on Harry’s arm. “Don’t be sorry, son. Ye’re the first customer we’ve had. Aah used to reckon they were mad, leaving the door unlocked whenthey weren’t here, an’ that notice on the table. But Jack always said that anyone of ill-will could soon smash a door or a window open, and he’d be in a rage by the time he’d got inside. Whereas if he was welcomed, he’d respect the place… ye’ve proved my Jack was right after all, son. Thank you. It gives me the strength to go on wi’ things, here. God bless you, whoever you are.” Tears stood out in his old eyes. “What’s your name, son? I’m going to write it in the book - the first name.”
“Harry Baguely.”
“And might I ask where you’re headed?” asked the old man, very gently.
“Just… up the coast,” said Harry. “I’m a pilgrim.”
“Oh, ye’re gannin to Holy Island - Lindisfarne?”
“Yes,” said Harry. Though he hadn’t decided till that very moment. Now, somehow, he
had
to go to Lindisfarne.
“God bless you, Harry Baguley” said the old man. “You and your dog.”
Tears grew in Harry’s own eyes. He suddenly felt he wanted to tell the old man everything about the bombing. It was like a great weight of water inside him, held back by a thin, thin dam. But the old man had enough troubles of his own. And the old man was happy now, in a way. Harry couldn’t bear to spoil his happiness, to let all the misery inside himself loose in the world.
“Tara,” he said abruptly, before he broke down. Shouldered his blankets, picked up his case and went.
But he turned and waved, before he was out of sight. The old man was sitting on the step of the carriage, lighting his pipe. He waved back.
Chapter Eight
The light was failing as they came off the rocks and into sight of Druridge Bay.
That was always the worst time, when the light failed. It was all right in the morning, when the sun was shining and the whole day lay ahead. It was nice to doze and watch the dog swimming, in the heat of the noonday sun. But getting dark had always been home-time, draw the curtains and wait for Dad to come from work time. The time Mam began to cook supper.
Druridge Bay was five miles of sand-dunes, low cliffs and empty sand. Not a thing stirred in the whole long curve of it. Five weary miles of nothing. And he had nothing to eat again. He stared around bleakly. Out to sea, some buoys andfloats bobbed meaninglessly. Druridge Bay, Dad once said, was a bombing range for the RAF, simply because nobody ever went there. He wondered wearily whether a plane would appear and drop a bomb on him and the dog; it would solve a lot of problems.
But the dog seemed to have found something, under the low, crumbling mud-coloured cliff. The dog was circling and barking. He put on a weary spurt to catch up.
The dog was barking at a very odd building, tucked under the cliff. A long box of a building, like a sagging shed. Fisherman’s hut? But surely even the poorest fisherman could do better than this? It was a shed made of patches. Patches of withered plank, of tins hammered flat and nailed on. Patches of corrugated iron, patches of old lino with the pattern still on it. But all painted with black tar, against the wind and rain. And at the far end, a thin stovepipe chimney, from which came smoke and… the smell of cooking fish. It must be the smell of the cooking that was making the dog bark.
He was still about fifty yards away, when a door in the patchwork swung open, and a figure emerged and flung a piece of what looked like wood at the dog.
“But… but…” Harry stared round the carriage. “They seemed so…” He couldn’t get it out.
“Alive? Aye, they’re here. If they’re anywhere. That’s why I keep the place on. They bought it to come and be near me, on their holidays. They were that happy here. Always laughing.”
“I’m sorry,” said Harry.
The old man put his hand on Harry’s arm. “Don’t be sorry, son. Ye’re the first customer we’ve had. Aah used to reckon they were mad, leaving the door unlocked whenthey weren’t here, an’ that notice on the table. But Jack always said that anyone of ill-will could soon smash a door or a window open, and he’d be in a rage by the time he’d got inside. Whereas if he was welcomed, he’d respect the place… ye’ve proved my Jack was right after all, son. Thank you. It gives me the strength to go on wi’ things, here. God bless you, whoever you are.” Tears stood out in his old eyes. “What’s your name, son? I’m going to write it in the book - the first name.”
“Harry Baguely.”
“And might I ask where you’re headed?” asked the old man, very gently.
“Just… up the coast,” said Harry. “I’m a pilgrim.”
“Oh, ye’re gannin to Holy Island - Lindisfarne?”
“Yes,” said Harry. Though he hadn’t decided till that very moment. Now, somehow, he
had
to go to Lindisfarne.
“God bless you, Harry Baguley” said the old man. “You and your dog.”
Tears grew in Harry’s own eyes. He suddenly felt he wanted to tell the old man everything about the bombing. It was like a great weight of water inside him, held back by a thin, thin dam. But the old man had enough troubles of his own. And the old man was happy now, in a way. Harry couldn’t bear to spoil his happiness, to let all the misery inside himself loose in the world.
“Tara,” he said abruptly, before he broke down. Shouldered his blankets, picked up his case and went.
But he turned and waved, before he was out of sight. The old man was sitting on the step of the carriage, lighting his pipe. He waved back.
Chapter Eight
The light was failing as they came off the rocks and into sight of Druridge Bay.
That was always the worst time, when the light failed. It was all right in the morning, when the sun was shining and the whole day lay ahead. It was nice to doze and watch the dog swimming, in the heat of the noonday sun. But getting dark had always been home-time, draw the curtains and wait for Dad to come from work time. The time Mam began to cook supper.
Druridge Bay was five miles of sand-dunes, low cliffs and empty sand. Not a thing stirred in the whole long curve of it. Five weary miles of nothing. And he had nothing to eat again. He stared around bleakly. Out to sea, some buoys andfloats bobbed meaninglessly. Druridge Bay, Dad once said, was a bombing range for the RAF, simply because nobody ever went there. He wondered wearily whether a plane would appear and drop a bomb on him and the dog; it would solve a lot of problems.
But the dog seemed to have found something, under the low, crumbling mud-coloured cliff. The dog was circling and barking. He put on a weary spurt to catch up.
The dog was barking at a very odd building, tucked under the cliff. A long box of a building, like a sagging shed. Fisherman’s hut? But surely even the poorest fisherman could do better than this? It was a shed made of patches. Patches of withered plank, of tins hammered flat and nailed on. Patches of corrugated iron, patches of old lino with the pattern still on it. But all painted with black tar, against the wind and rain. And at the far end, a thin stovepipe chimney, from which came smoke and… the smell of cooking fish. It must be the smell of the cooking that was making the dog bark.
He was still about fifty yards away, when a door in the patchwork swung open, and a figure emerged and flung a piece of what looked like wood at the dog.
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