Tuesday, 12 November 2024

Ink blot


                                     Corona Coronet typewriter 

                                      Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons


Are the days of pen and ink numbered? Are children no longer seduced by the smell of ink and have they been released from the impossibility of avoiding smudges and inky fingers?

This short tale refers to a time when typewriters were becoming popular, and electric machines in particular were hailed as indispensable.

 

 

Ink Blot

Ink Blot stared, appalled, at the new-fangled machine on the table next to him. He had seen the man tapping on it and creating words on paper that curled magically as he worked, so he knew the thing must have ink, but where? Ink Blot himself had been created from a bottle of ink that the man had dropped. He had cursed mightily but Ink Blot was happy. Being a permanent mark on the wall seemed more important and certainly more immediately noticeable than words on a page.

He looked again at the machine. Coronet – was the man expecting ennoblement? Ink Blot could read but he didn’t understand the context of the words unless they were read out. The man frequently read aloud what he had produced and sometimes he smiled. More often he swore and crumpled the paper and threw it across the room. The floor was littered with cast-off pages.

Ink Blot didn’t like the machine. He disliked the awkward tapping and displeasing lack of rhythm of the keys. The gentle sound of a pen nib scratching was soothing and the man didn’t have to use so much energy, either in the writing or the scrunching of the paper. The machine clung on to the pages so that they had to be wrenched forcefully from its grasp with a snatching sound.

Ink Blot noticed that the man had attached the machine to the wall with a lead. Was that because it would wander away if it wasn’t fastened? Might it be dangerous if it were allowed its freedom? Ink Blot didn’t know but he was glad that it had been made to stay in one place. He didn’t like the way it hummed, either. Still, he was content. He had made his mark. He felt he would be here long after the machine had had its day. He smiled.

The man had gone away. He had been gone for a long time and Ink Blot was relieved when he saw him return. He wondered what the man was carrying. What did it say?

 

P A I N T


Ink Blot didn’t know what that meant. The machine whined maliciously. Ink Blot glared and then there was oblivion.

 

Monday, 11 November 2024

Why poppies?

 

Why poppies?

In the Flanders Fields of western Belgium in the First World War, constant artillery bombardment churned and ploughed the ground. The severe disruption brought dormant poppy seeds to the surface, enabling them to germinate in the light. In mass cemeteries and wherever the ground had been broached, they grew and bloomed in profusion.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

Allusions to war and poppies in Flanders date back to 1693 and the Battle of Landen (Battle of Neerwinden) which was then part of the Spanish Netherlands. In that battle, during the Nine Years’ War (1688-1697) William III was defeated by the French. One combatant wrote, ‘During many months after the ground was strewn with skulls and bones of horses and men . . . The next summer the    soil, fertilised by 20,000 corpses, broke forth into millions of scarlet poppies.’

During the Great War, soldiers saw poppies everywhere, a bright splash of colour in an horrendous setting. Many of them picked the flowers, pressing them to enclose in letters home to their loved ones. There are fragile examples held in the Imperial War Museum. One was sent in a wooden cigar box with a handwritten note that said, ‘Gathered by Jack on the battlefield June 16th, 1917.’

Among those millions who saw the fields of poppies was a Canadian military doctor, Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae. The day after seeing his friend die in May 1915, he wrote ‘In Flanders Fields.’ He did not survive the war, but his poem has been memorised and recited through the generations.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

The poppy only became a potent symbol of Remembrance a few years after the end of the war, thanks to the efforts of an American, Moina Belle Michael and a Frenchwoman, Anna Guérin. Moina Michael bought artificial flowers for people to wear on their lapels for Remembrance. Anna Guérin was known as ‘the poppy lady from France.’ She organised a group of French war widows who made silk flowers to sell to raise money for charity. By 1920, the American Legion and other American veterans’ associations adopted the scarlet poppy for Remembrance. They were followed a year later by the Royal British Legion, headed by Field Marshal Sir Douglas Haig.

 The first official British Remembrance Day was on 11th November, 1921, though acts of remembrance had been held across the country in preceding years, including the burial of the Unknown Warrior and the dedication of the Cenotaph in London.

I think this final verse could be adapted for current conditions, not as a call to arms in physical battle, but as a cry to use our common sense. There’s little enough of that in some quarters at present.                              

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Hold the faith!

Sunday, 10 November 2024

HMS Bulwark

 

HMS Bulwark

                        William Robert Mayne, Chief Yeoman of Signals

Since 1777 there have been seven ships bearing the name ‘Bulwark.’ The name references the Royal Navy as the bulwark or defence of the country.

The seventh ship of the name is an amphibious assault ship launched in 2001 and delivered into service in 2005.

The fifth HMS Bulwark was an armoured battleship laid down in Devonport dockyard in 1899 and completed in 1902. At one time she was commanded by Captain R.F. Scott, then the most junior battleship captain, who later became famous as an explorer, dying in Antarctica in 1912.

Two of her sister ships, were built at Chatham dockyard, HMS Venerable completing in 1902 and HMS Prince of Wales, in 1904.

                                                    HMS Bulwark

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Bulwark was the flag ship of the Mediterranean Fleet, and later the flag ship of the Channel and Home Fleets. The flag ship carried the admiral, the commanding officer of the fleet. For four years, from 1910 to 1914, she was mothballed, to be kept in reserve.

However, when the First World War began in July 1914, Bulwark was brought out of reserve in August to form part of the Channel Fleet with the express purpose of patrolling the North Kent Coast and protecting the British Expeditionary Force as it crossed to France.

Moored west of Sheerness on the Isle of Sheppey, in the River Medway estuary, Bulwark was taking on coal from the Isle of Grain, when she was torn apart by a huge explosion, on 26th November, 1914.

In the House of Commons that afternoon, Winston Churchill announced, ‘I regret to say I have some bad news for the House. The Bulwark battleship, which was lying in Sheerness this morning, blew up at 7.35 o’clock . . . the loss of life is very severe. Only twelve men are saved. All the officers and the rest of the crew, who, I suppose, amounted to between 700 and 800, have perished.’

The explosion was heard twenty miles away in Whitstable and at first, sabotage was suspected, or the beginning of the feared Zeppelin raids. The Naval Court of Enquiry established as far as it could that an internal explosion had occurred. It concluded that a fault with one of the ammunition shells or overheating cordite near a boiler room bulkhead might have been responsible for the explosion.

Eye witnesses, on shore and on nearby vessels, described seeing the flash of detonation, and that once the thick smoke had dissipated, there was nothing to be seen. The ship had completely disappeared. The explosion was so violent that little could be found of her when naval divers went down to investigate. Debris, clothes and bodies were blown into the rigging of other ships in the vicinity. It remains the second most catastrophic accidental explosion ever seen in the UK.

The area of the wreck is a designated Military Wreck, or war grave, and is marked by East Bulwark and West Bulwark buoys.

Of the few survivors, five died of their wounds within days, and most of the others were seriously wounded. Only thirty bodies were recovered for individual burial. The rest were placed in a communal grave. Most of the crew came from the Portsmouth area.

Bulwark’s sister ships, Venerable and Prince of Wales, served throughout the war and were broken up in 1920.

The crew members were young, some only 15 or 16.

Boy 1st Class William Monckton Kellow J/28702

Royal Navy, HMS Bulwark

26/11/1914 (aged 15)

Midshipman William Ellice

Royal Navy, HMS Bulwark

26/11/1914 (aged 15)

Boy 1st Class Edward Ernest Leslie Hyslop J/28341

Royal Navy, HMS Bulwark

26/11/1914 (aged 16)


The final hearing was held on 16th December, 1914, my father’s tenth birthday. He was the youngest of three brothers and his father had been killed on HMS Bulwark. His father’s masonic regalia was washed ashore and returned to his mother.

Chief Yeoman of Signals William Robert Mayne 167410

Royal Navy, HMS Bulwark

26/11/1914 (aged 39)

MAYNE, WILLIAM ROBERT (39), Chief Yeoman of Signals (no. 167410), HMS Bulwark, Royal Navy, †26/11/1914, Son of Henry and Ellen Mayne, of 9, Harold Terrace, Emsworth, Hants.; husband of Harriet Mayne, of Frondeg, Penllergaer, Gorseinon, Glam, Memorial: Portsmouth Naval Memorial

Will stands between his father and my father, the baby. Harry is in front.

My father and his eldest brother both went on to join the navy, the Royal Navy for my father and the Royal Canadian Navy for Will. The middle brother, Harry, disappeared, cutting off all ties with his family, to his mother’s eternal regret.

William, standing, Harry left, and Charles right.

Saturday, 9 November 2024

To lighten the mood – maybe

 

To lighten the mood – maybe

A few years ago, I responded to a writing prompt from Delores, who used to blog but had to give up. She asked, ‘How many ways can you work the word ‘sliver’ into a sentence?’

I dished up some doggerel, reminded of the times I would insist that my children ate the liver I’d cooked occasionally, because it was ‘good’ for them. It was cruel. Of course, it may have been the way I cooked it – I will never be acclaimed as a good cook, not even, I fear, a passable one.

One of them has been an avowed vegetarian for most of her adult life! I wonder why?

My apologies to those who may have seen this flight of fancy before.

 

A sliver of liver
Makes small children shiver
When struggling to swallow
The unswallowable,

And all of a dither
Their tears start to slither,
Unstoppable river -
It’s horrible.

They gaze at the giver,
A look that would wither
The hardest of hearts -
Ineffable.

‘Just a sliver of liver,
To make you grow strong,’
The adult’s persuasion -
Implacable.

The sliver grows bigger,
And drier and harder,
It can’t be choked down -
Unspeakable.

If all children ate
The things that they ‘should’
They’d grow into giants -
Implausible.

Friday, 8 November 2024

Julian of Norwich

 

Julian of Norwich (1342-c.1416)

Statue of Julian of Norwich by David Holgate, west front, Norwich Cathedral

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

‘All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.’

I was reminded of these words, revealed to Julian of Norwich, and took some comfort in them. They seem to refer to the transitory nature of troubles and give hope for a better future.

During a serious illness, when she was around thirty years old and thought she was about to die, she received visions of Christ’s Passion. Soon after she recovered, she vowed to become an anchoress and wrote a short version of her experiences. Many years later, she recorded a longer account, subsequently known as the Long Text. Her ‘Revelations of Divine Love,’ are the earliest known works in the English language attributed to a woman.

Julian of Norwich, also referred to as Mother Julian, the Lady Julian, Dame Julian or Juliana of Norwich, lived her entire life in the city of Norwich, which in the 14th century was an important centre for both commerce and religion. It was second only to London in its importance as an agricultural and trading centre, and was also probably one of the most religious European cities, with its cathedral, friaries, priories, churches and anchorites’ cells.

As an anchorite (or anchoress) Julian of Norwich lived in permanent isolation in a cell attached to St Julian’s Church. The church, one of the oldest in Norwich, was named for St Julian, who lived hundreds of years before the Lady Julian. Attending to her physical needs were servants, among them, Sarah and Alice.

Anchorites removed themselves from secular life to live a profoundly spiritual life of prayer and intercession for others. They voluntarily agreed to live in permanent enclosures, which were often built against church walls. Although some allowed themselves some freedom of movement from cells to church and church grounds, others opted to be walled in. As they undertook the ascetic life, they underwent a consecration similar to a funeral ceremony, after which they were judged to be dead to the world, and took on the form of living saints.

Quatrefoil window, for receiving the Eucharist, and squint to view the high altar in the anchorite cell of St James' Church, Shere, Surrey

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

The anchorholds were about twelve to fifteen feet square, with three windows. One window allowed light into the cell, one allowed servants to see to the needs of the occupant, delivering food and water and emptying the chamber pot, for example, and one, called the ‘squint’ or hagioscope, enabled the anchorite to view the church altar, and to receive communion. Anchorites were regarded as respected advisers and were consulted by local congregants for guidance in their spiritual lives.

In ‘Revelations of Divine Life’ Julian wrote, ‘From the time these things were first revealed I had often wanted to know what was our Lord’s meaning . . . Love was His meaning. Who showed it to you? Love. Why did He show it? For love. Hold onto this and you will know and understand love more and more.’

St Julian’s church was destroyed in an air raid in the Second World War, only the original walls remaining. It was rebuilt and a shrine to Julian erected on the original site of her cell. Julian was a common name for girls in the Mediaeval period and was the old form of the modern name, Gillian. 

 

        Anchorite's cell, in St Anne's Church, Lewes Sussex, showing the window onto the chancel

                                                                        Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

                                                                                                                        

Thursday, 7 November 2024

Legacy

 

Legacy

Wednesday was a typical English November day, still and dry with a slight mist in the air. It was a good day for a funeral if there can ever be such a thing.

The service had been planned carefully for a double funeral. Our neighbours had died within weeks of each other, after more than sixty years of marriage, and it was their only child’s last gift to them to organise a memorable celebration of their lives.

Lee did them proud, but their lasting legacy is him. He is one of the nicest people I have ever known, unfailingly polite and considerate, with a natural charm and ease of manner and a keen sense of humour, characteristics his three sons have inherited. He and his wife were proud to see their boys carry their grandmother’s casket. She had said that she would be pleased to be going down the aisle again with her husband, united in life and love, united in death.

They were good people, and will be much missed by their loving family and many friends.

RIP Gill and Tony.

Wednesday, 6 November 2024

We will remember them

 

We will remember them

The latest post box topper draws attention to Remembrance Day. It is not a celebration of war and it is pleasing to note that there are purple and white poppies, as well as the more familiar scarlet flowers. The purple poppies symbolise the many animals that have been killed in so many wars. The white poppies represent remembrance for all victims of conflict and a wish for peace. White poppies are often worn by Quakers.

‘They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old,

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn,

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.’

These words, the fourth stanza of Robert Laurence Binyon’s ‘Ode of Remembrance,’ are spoken at the Cenotaph in London and at countless village memorials and military bases throughout the world on Remembrance Sunday. It is a solemn, poignant moment and is followed by the deepening quietness of the two-minute silence. Whatever the size of the gathering, it is moving to observe the reverence displayed, in particular by the very old and the extremely young. 

At 11 a.m. on November 11th, the moment at which the Armistice came into effect in 1918, having been agreed at 05.10.am, many businesses, schools, and other organisations, observe the silence.

It was first observed on November 11th, 1919, to mark the first anniversary of the cessation of the First World War. It was initiated by King George V, who issued a proclamation appealing for a two-minute silence ‘to remember the fallen.’ The first minute was to remember those who had died in conflict, soldiers, and civilians alike, and the second was to give thought to those left behind, the maimed and the bereaved, who must continue with their altered lives.

Laurence Binyon wrote ‘For the Fallen’ in September 1914, a few weeks after war was declared when many casualties had been suffered at the Battles of Mons and Le Cateau and the First Battle of the Marne.

In 1915, aged forty-six, he volunteered as a hospital orderly in France and later, in England, cared for the returned wounded from the ten-month long Battle of Verdun.

Tuesday, 5 November 2024

Decorum

 

Decorum

The following is an update of a little sketch I wrote twelve years ago.

Miss Blythe was a genteel woman who spent her spinster days preparing young ladies for their debut into society. These were not the daughters of aristocracy, but rather the children of parents newly come into money and anxious to rise in society.

She showed them how to curtsey and how to maintain perfect deportment. The young ladies pouted and complained as they crossed the room that the books on their heads were too heavy, but Miss Blythe insisted that her method was the only one by which they would achieve poise and elegance, and she was proved correct.

Miss Blythe taught her charges how to dress appropriately for different occasions, and took them through the sometimes confusing array of cutlery and flatware that would greet them at grand banquets. She explained how they should respond to young gentlemen, that is, with a pleasing combination of attentiveness and coyness. She reminded them that, although it was an age in which young women were becoming more assertive, they should pay close attention to her dictums, if they wished to make the desired impression in the right circles.

The ‘right circles’ were those in which their doting mamas hoped their dutiful daughters would attract suitable and suitably rich husbands. It was, for most of them, a vain hope, for aristocracy and ‘old money’ prefer their own kind.

Nonetheless, Miss Blythe performed her duties well. Decorum was everything to her and the ladies who trusted their daughters to her expert tuition were always delighted with her results. Many a duck was transformed, if not into a swan, at least not into a goose.

Sitting demurely was something she insisted on. ’Ankles should be crossed at the ankle, hands folded in laps - there should be no fidgeting,’ she instructed. ‘If you are overheated, employ your fan, but be aware of the language of the fan.'

The young ladies smirked at each other, thinking fans were old-fashioned. They were careful not to let Miss Blythe see, for smirking was a lower-class habit to be discouraged.

At the beginning of each social season, she was pleased to see her protégées depart for their sparkling lives of privilege and comfortable marriage. She thought of her own mother’s exhortations to her as a young woman.

Miss Blythe’s origins were humble in the extreme. Her mother, a washerwoman, had wished great things for her daughter.

‘I don’t want you falling like what I did,’ she said. ‘Just you remember, my girl, keep your ‘and on your ‘a’penny. Save yerself for someone what deserves yer.’

‘Yes, Ma,’ said Ethel and worked hard to discover the correct way of doing things the way the toffs, as her mother called them, did them.

She did well, Ethel Blythe, and though she may never have made the leap across the classes as her mother had hoped, she led a comfortable though husbandless life, nevertheless. As she exhorted her young ladies to sit decorously, her mother’s word often sprang to her lips to be bitten back before expression.

‘A girl’s legs are her best friends,’ her mother always said, ‘And best friends should never be parted.

‘Just once, ‘she sighed, ‘I wonder what it would have been like.’

Monday, 4 November 2024

World Jellyfish Day

 

World Jellyfish Day  


                                          Moon jellyfish  (Aurelia aurita) 
This jellyfish can be kept as a pet!
Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Sunday was World Jellyfish Day. Jellyfish have existed for more than five hundred million years, making them more ancient than dinosaurs. There are many varieties, ranging in size from a few millimetres to more than two metres in diameter. Jellyfish are found in all the oceans of the world, and are more useful than commonly supposed.

For example, young fish can shelter under their tentacles and can feed on small organisms that can be found on the jellyfish. Jellyfish are preyed on by larger jellyfish, crabs, fish, seabirds, and turtles.

They also filter out plankton and other organisms, and carry phosphorous and nitrogen through the water.   

Japanese Sea Nettle (Chrysaora pacifica)

This animal has a strong sting, dangerous to humans

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

These marine animals have no heart, brain or skeleton but have a nervous system that enables awareness of their environment. They cannot see but sense changes in light, and some can glow in the dark. Their bodies are composed of a gelatinous bell, from which hang tentacles, which vary in length and number, according to species. Though jellyfish are usually thought of as being transparent and colourless, some display bright colours.

Some, like the little box jellyfish (Cubozoa) carry deadly venom in their tentacles, enough, it is said, to kill sixty humans. Just one sting can cause excruciating pain, and annual fatalities are estimated to be between twenty and forty in the Philippines alone. The Australian box jellyfish is judged to be the most toxic of the species.

Australian box jellyfish (Chironex fleckeri)

Nicknamed the Sea Wasp, this extremely venomous jellyfish is described as 'the most lethal jellyfish in the world', responsible for at least 64 deaths in Australia since 1884.

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

 Box jellyfish are so called because of their unique cuboid shape and there are at least fifty species in this classification. They can move much faster than other jellyfish because of their structure. They are active hunters, unlike other jellyfish, which may just drift.

Climate change has led to warmer waters, causing jellyfish to form great swarms, known as blooms or smacks, which can damage fishing gear, or clog cooling systems.

Most jelly fish live for twelve to eighteen months, but the immortal jellyfish (Turritopsis dohrnii) can revert to an earlier stage of its life, so that it has a stronger chance of survival.

Jellyfish are a delicacy in some Asian countries and are perceived to be a ‘perfect food,’ as they are rich in protein.

Sunday, 3 November 2024

Pigeon in the Pyracantha

 

Pigeon in the Pyracantha

We have a Reolink camera that looks out over our front drive. If we’re waiting for visitors or a delivery, we can see immediately if they’ve arrived.

Yesterday, I noticed some people outside. There were two men and women and a boy, and they were obviously looking for something, in that, ‘I’m looking for something, but I really don’t want to trespass’ way.

When Barry went to find out what was going on, they told him that their little Jack Russell rescue from Romania had run onto our drive. She must have slipped her collar. We couldn’t find her anywhere – she wasn’t hiding under the cars, and couldn’t have squeezed under our rather substantial garden gate, so must have gone through the hedge into next-door’s garden. They left their contact details in case we found her. I hope the little dog found her way home – she hadn’t been living there for very long. We would like to ring to find out, but if she hasn’t returned home, it would upset them, so we just cross our fingers and hope.

The Reolink camera is situated just above a large pyracantha bush, which flowers magnificently in spring, attracting bees and hoverflies and other pollinators.

                                Photograph taken through glass

The flowers in turn produce scarlet berries, which are much loved by birds. This morning, a large wood pigeon flew onto the bush and balanced in an ungainly fashion, tipping forwards and sideways. It remained on the shrub for about twenty minutes, and though I haven’t looked, I imagine there are very few berries left. There are two more pyracantha bushes, one with orange berries, and one with yellow, and a further two in the back garden, so there should be enough to go round.

I took some photographs, but the bird wouldn’t show its head, and one view of tail feathers is pretty much like any other, so I haven’t uploaded any of them.

Instead, here is an outcrop of a photograph taken through glass a few years ago on the pyracantha in the back garden. The bird in the foreground is a juvenile. It hasn’t yet developed its white neck patches, and the colour is generally paler than an adult’s. The bird behind is an adult, and although it’s somewhat out of focus, the white patches on either side of the neck are just discernible.

        This is a mature wood pigeon, photograph taken a few years ago.

Saturday, 2 November 2024

Cat in a box

 

Cat in a box

Cats cannot resist boxes. They sit on them, in them, under them. They jump onto them, leap off them, sharpen their claws on them.

The box may look too small for them, but they will squeeze themselves in, regardless.

The other day it was Herschel’s turn to explore a fairly sizeable box.

He jumped in, peeped over the top, sniffed about, looked around and then leapt out again.

This is what he said.

                                                    Peep-bo!



I can hear something. Who’s there? I’m warning you, keep out of my box. Yes, I mean you, Jellicoe.

What’s that over there? Shall I go and have a look? Can I be bothered?

Getting bored now. There’s not much going on in here. Think I’ll find something else to do.

 

Friday, 1 November 2024

A pinch and a punch . . .

 

A pinch and a punch . . .

 . . . for the first of the month, and no returns of any kind.

A kick and a slap for answering back, and no returns of any kind.

A pinch and a kick for being so quick, and no returns of any kind.

A punch in the eye for being so sly, and no returns of any kind.

‘and no returns of any kind’ is redundant because someone will always try to outdo you, even if you add 'White rabbits.'

Do children still repeat these sayings or are they too sophisticated for such nonsense? I must enquire among the younger members of the family. If they do follow the tradition, I hope they remember that all the pinching, punching and other physical assaults must be conducted before noon, just as April Fool’s tricks must not be continued after midday.

Where did the saying originate? There are three possibilities. One is that it derives from an old fertility charm to invoke pregnancy. This theory raises a number of questions. Does the woman pinch the man, to wake him up to his duty or does the man punch the woman, claiming his conjugal rights?

No, I don’t like that scenario.

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

In mediaeval times, people believed in witches and were afraid of them. They believed that salt weakened them, so would take a pinch of salt to throw on a suspected witch and then punch her to make her go away. I wonder how many poor souls were treated in this way, living in fear and abject misery because of the way they looked or behaved.

The third theory I have come across attributes the deed to George Washington (1732-1799) though not in quite the way it is conducted today. It is said that during his presidency, (1789 to 1797) he would meet with Native American tribes on the first day of each month, and supply them with fruit punch with an added pinch of salt. Why he would do that is not explained, and the theory is unverifiable.

 I think the second explanation of superstitious people abusing ‘witches,’ seems the most likely.

I hope no-one forgot to say ‘White Rabbits’ first thing!

Thursday, 31 October 2024

The Clock Strikes Two

 

The Clock Strikes Two

The following is a story I wrote a few years ago. It is based very loosely on an experience I had, sailing round the east coast. Apologies to any of my followers who have read it before.

The sails billowed in a fair breeze as they rounded the headland. It was a perfect late October day. The sun shone in a cloudless sky, the sea reflecting it in a thousand sparkling pinpoints.

Will, an experienced sailor, knew the coastline well, but had never moored in the secluded bay they were approaching. He suggested dropping anchor and rowing ashore to the pub he had spotted through his binoculars. Sarah, new to sailing, and wanting to feel firm ground beneath her feet again, agreed readily.

They secured the anchor and clambered down into the dinghy rocking on the waves. The wind had dropped, and Will rowed in perfect rhythm as Sarah watched. Not conventionally handsome, Will was a pleasant-looking man in an open, boyish way. He would be glad when he was older that people mistook him for younger than his years.

As they neared the shore, Sarah tried to shrug off her growing feeling of unease. Will noticed. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

Sarah shook her head. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘I’m probably tired. I’ll feel better when we’ve eaten.’

Will jumped out of the boat at the water’s edge and hauled it up onto the beach alongside some fishing smacks. He held out his hand to steady Sarah as she stepped onto the pebbles. The sun was not shining as brightly here, and the wind was chill. Sarah shivered and Will put his arm around her and pulled her to his side. Somewhere, a church bell struck the hour.

‘Someone needs to put that clock right,’ said Will. ‘It’s gone two o’clock.’

The pub was in the middle of a row of cottages. Fishing nets hung over their stone walls. A church spire rose behind, its blue clock face barely discernible. Sarah looked back at their yacht, bobbing on the blue sea, where the sun still blazed down. She longed to be back on deck, away from this place. Will hugged her as they entered the pub.

The interior was dimly lit and smelt of decades of spilt beer and sour bodies. A log fire smouldered sulkily in the hearth. The few customers nursed their glasses and glanced up, unsmiling, at the young couple, then looked away.

The innkeeper told them the pub didn’t serve meals, so they bought some crisps and went to sit in a corner with their drinks. They spoke quietly to each other, conscious that no-one else was talking.

Sarah shivered. ‘I feel as if we’re being watched.’

‘I’m sure we’re not, but it’s not very welcoming here, I agree.’

They finished their drinks and left, anxious to return to the familiarity of their small craft. Sarah looked back at the pub.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘There are no lights in any of the windows and there’s no smoke coming from the chimney.’

Will laughed. ‘The fire wasn’t burning brightly enough to produce smoke,’ he said, but his words lacked conviction.

Once back aboard, he suggested lifting the anchor and sailing to another bay, one he knew well, so they could shorten the next day’s sail. Sarah was relieved, and set to, hauling on the sheets to raise the sails.

As the sails took the wind and the boat began to move, the church clock struck two again.

The rest of the voyage was unremarkable and soon it was time to moor the boat and go home. Meeting friends in a restaurant a few days later, Sarah mentioned the strange atmosphere of the bay and the unfriendliness of the locals in the pub. One of their friends, a local man, looked quizzical, and asked for further details. Will drew a map on a napkin.

Their friend blew out his cheeks. ‘You say you anchored in the bay and went into the pub?’

Will nodded.

‘You’re sure it was that bay?’

Will nodded again.

‘I’m sorry, you must be mistaken.’

 Will opened his mouth to protest, but the man continued.

‘One night, about a hundred years ago, there was a terrible storm, and the land just fell away into the sea. It had been eroding for many years. The villagers had been warned it was unsafe, but refused to leave. They made their living from the sea. Where else could they go? What else could they do?’

 Sarah shuddered. ‘How dreadful What happened to them?’

‘They all drowned. Like most seafaring folk at that time, they couldn’t swim. In any case, they were asleep when it happened, so they had no chance of escaping.’

‘What time did it happen?’ asked Will.

‘Two o’clock in the morning. It was pitch black, no moon. They didn’t stand a chance.’

‘Was there a church in the village?’ Sarah asked.

‘Yes, and that fell into the sea, too.’

‘But we saw it all – the church, the cottages, the fishing boats, the pub,’ said Sarah, ‘We even heard the clock strike two – the wrong time, twice.’ 

‘You were lucky,’ said their friend, his grave expression underscoring his words. ‘If you'd heard the clock strike three times, you wouldn't have lived to tell the tale. There are stories galore of people and boats going missing in that area.’

Will looked sceptical.

‘Oh, not all year round,’ their friend said, ‘Just on October 31st, the date it happened.’