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 31^st, the date it happened.’