Safe Harbour (11 page)

Sophie tossed and turned in bed that night. Then, in the darkness, she heard a voice. Within a few seconds she realised it was Hugh, talking in his sleep. Worried, she got out of her bed and went to his room.

Hugh lay with the blankets half kicked off, and he was thrashing about and turning in the bed. His hair was damp and clung to his head, and he was obviously deep in a vivid nightmare.

‘Hugh! Hugh! It’s all right! Wake up!’ Sophie called softly.

But he seemed too far away, in a world where he could not hear her.

She could see a pulse throbbing in his neck and he was breathing very sharply. ‘Hugh! Please wake up!’

He was scrubbing with his hands at something.

Scared now, she ran to Grandfather’s door and knocked.

He was already up and awake, and had pulled on a large camel wrap-over dressing gown and grabbed hold of sturdy metal crutches from beside his bed. He seemed unaware of her embarrassed gaze as she took in the flapping empty pyjama leg.

‘I didn’t know whether to wake him – he’s having a really bad dream,’ she whispered.

The old man took in the fitful state of his grandson, then he lowered himself down on the side of the child’s bed.

‘We don’t want to shock him any more than he already is,’ he told Sophie. ‘You sit on the chair there in front of him, so when he opens his eyes he’ll see you.’

He lifted the child’s wrist.

‘His pulse is very elevated, his breathing far too rapid,’ he confided. ‘Hugh!’ he said in a loud voice. ‘HUGH!’ He repeated the name several times. ‘Don’t be afraid, Hugh, you’re safe. Sophie and I are here with you, nothing bad can happen to you, I promise.’

Hugh stirred as if hearing something very far off. Sophie could just make out the words ‘sea’ and ‘drowning’ from his muttered words.

‘It’s all right, Hugh!’ said the old man firmly. ‘You are safe, Hugh!’

‘Help me! Help me!’ mumbled Hugh. He was trying to reach out, and he attempted to sit up.

Grandfather caught him gently in his arms. ‘You’re all right, Hugh! I’m with you.’

The boy seemed to stop fighting whatever invisible memory it was as his grandfather held him to his chest, rocking him. ‘I have you, Hugh! You’re safe!’

Hugh seemed to relax. ‘Don’t want to be torpedoed … ship’s going down,’ mumbled the pale-faced boy.

‘It’s okay, Hugh lad!’

Sophie watched as Grandfather rocked his grandson gently. Her eyes were closing with sleep.

The old man held the boy for a long time until his breathing became easier and more relaxed. ‘That’s the boy, Neil, that’s the boy!’

Sophie stirred. He had said her father’s name – maybe Dad used to have nightmares and bad dreams too? She pretended not to have heard the slip of the tongue, and she helped Grandfather lower Hugh back into bed and she plumped up the pillows.

Hugh smiled sleepily at her. ‘I had a really bad dream, Soph. I was a sailor on a ship and it was torpedoed and I was in the sea and trying to find some way out of the ship as it was sinking, it was …’ he yawned sleepily.

‘It’s over,’ she assured him, and she pulled up the blankets. He was back in a sound sleep already.

She looked at Grandfather. He looked old and tired and worn.

‘It’s this war!’ he said. ‘It gives old men like me nightmares, it’s no wonder it has got to poor Hugh.’

‘He must have been thinking of Frank!’

‘Yes, I suppose so!’ he said wearily.

He was trying to stand up stiffly. The crutches had fallen half under the bed.

Sophie reached for them, then leaned forward to help him up. He put his hand on her shoulder for support.

‘I’ve been a silly old fool,’ he said slowly.

‘I know you’re doing your best for us,’ mumbled Sophie.

‘We could make it easier, Sophie!’

She understood what he meant.

‘Do you think that the two of us could declare a truce and call off the hostilities between us? Isn’t one war enough?’ he asked.

Sophie considered, then nodded slowly.

‘I’m a stubborn old man, used to my own ways!’ Grandfather said.

‘I’m stubborn too,’ she admitted. ‘Dad often says so.’

‘Now, I wonder where you got that from?’ he whispered jokingly. ‘Goodnight, Sophie,’ he said, and he limped to the door.

She watched the tall figure stumbling off. ‘Goodnight, Grandfather,’ she said gently.

Nancy came back at last. She looked thinner and older and she would not mention Frank and what had happened.

Sophie wondered what it was really like to lose a next-of-kin. How did you pretend to get back to normal? She searched the young housekeeper’s washed-out face for a clue.

‘Well, you managed then!’ murmured Nancy.

‘Grandfather cooked,’ confided Sophie.

‘Old bachelors can make good cooks – men can manage if they have to,’ declared Nancy.

‘Hugh wouldn’t eat a thing!’

‘Aye! Well, I’m here now, so we’ll get things back on an even keel again.’

Nancy worked like a whirlwind around the house, cleaning and polishing furiously, as if she wanted to block out the events of the past eight days. The old man retreated to the peace and quiet of his study again, except for his twice-daily seafront stroll.

Summer was coming. Sophie could hear it in the cries of the seagulls that wheeled around the sunny blueness of the quay outside. The sea had lost its sharp salty tang and was becoming more gentle. Strangers were starting to promenade along the front, with excited dogs dragging them along this new-found territory. Grandfather had taken to wearing a
blazer instead of his usual tweed jacket.

There had been three letters from Mum – well, not quite from Mum. One was from Nurse Harvey, describing how well Mum was doing and how she was moving to a different type of hospital, one that would teach her to do things again, help her brain to start working in a proper way and make her better. The second letter was very brief and just said that she had arrived safe and sound and was in the Montclare Ward. The other was from a woman called Rose who was a volunteer at the new hospital and was delighted to tell them all about her patient.

‘Every week you will hear from me about your mother’s progress,’ she wrote. ‘I know from vast experience the loneliness of separation from a loved-one and I will do my best to bridge that gap.’

Sophie wept, wishing that she was there with her mother, instead of a stranger called Rose.

‘Are you two up to anything in particular?’ enquired their grandfather after a late breakfast on Saturday.

‘Nope!’ they both replied.

‘Then, come and follow me!’ he said. ‘I have to meet a man down at the harbour.’

The harbour was very quiet – all the boats had gone out fishing hours before. Grandfather waited impatiently until finally an elderly man came up to him. The two grey-haired heads bent close as if discussing some secret business.

The children leaned against the wall, soaking in the sunshine.

‘Down to the beach!’ ordered Grandfather suddenly. It 
was very stony and uneven and Sophie wondered if Grandfather would lose his balance.

But he stopped near the fishermen’s cabins above the beach and pointed to a small rowing boat, one which Sophie hadn’t noticed before. There were two seats in it and it was freshly varnished and amazingly clean – not a fish-head or rotten crab-leg to be seen.

The two of them looked it over. It was stained honey-brown and painted with a stripe of deep green.

‘Well, what do you think of her?’ shouted Grandfather.

It was then that Sophie noticed the small name plaque freshly fixed to the prow: The Londoner. At once she knew it was hers – theirs – it was meant for herself and Hugh.

A huge grin lit up Grandfather’s face. Sophie had never seen him happy or smiling before. She felt a weight lift from her shoulders. This was his peace-offering.

‘It’s ours, Hugh!’ she yelled.

Her young brother looked totally dumbfounded. ‘Our own boat?’

She ran her hand along the smooth wooden side, caressing it. ‘Ours!’

Sophie and Hugh reached their grandfather at the same time.

‘Take care! Don’t knock an old man off his feet,’ he warned as they hugged him. His eyes searched Sophie’s face for approval. ‘Well, you like her then?’

Sophie could only nod. Tears welled up in her eyes. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever given her in her whole life. ‘Thank you, Grandfather.’

‘You can’t live in a place like Greystones and not have a boat,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll be here for a while yet,’ he continued.

Grandfather seemed to think the war was going to last. Sophie decided she would not let that knowledge disturb the pleasure of owning a boat.

Grandfather’s friend, Mr Furlong, was searching around in his cramped little fisherman’s storage hut. ‘Here you go,’ he shouted, and handed each of them an oar and a shiny silver oar-lock. Then he wandered back inside and came out with a rusty old paint can. ‘You’ll need this for baling her out. All timber will let water in, so mind you keep an eye on it!’

Hugh’s ears were bright pink with excitement at the idea of having a boat of their own.

‘Come on! Let’s get her on the water,’ said Sophie.

Grandfather gave an abrupt cough. ‘Well, young lady! Do you think there is something we have forgotten?’ he asked.

She racked her brain. The little boat looked perfect. Then in a flash came the image of Mr Kinsella up to his chest in water. ‘Life-jackets! Oh, Grandfather, we must have life-jackets.’

Hugh was about to protest, not wanting any delays.

‘I’m glad you remembered. Mr Furlong got two for me,’ he stated firmly. ‘They are under the seats. They must be worn at all times. Swimming lessons or not. Are we agreed?’

‘Yes,’ said the two of them solemnly. ‘We promise.’

‘That is an absolute unbreakable rule,’ he said once more.

They nodded again, and Sophie reached in and pulled out the jackets. They put them on and zipped up.

‘Ready!’ called Hugh, and off they went.

Grandfather leaned against the wall watching them as they pulled The Londoner down to meet the tide. The water tried to push the small craft back on to the pebbly shore. It wasn’t easy to launch her.

Mr Furlong came to their aid. ‘You two hop in! I’ll give you a shove.’

The seat was just about wide enough for them to sit side-by-side and fix an oar in each oarlock.

‘Now, feel your balance. Just try to put the oar nicely in the water. That’s right, young fellow. That’s the way.’

Sophie’s oar kept skimming the top of the water and she nearly fell off the wooden seat.

‘Try to relax. Dip it in a wee bit more,’ Mr Furlong advised.

It looked so easy but it was about half-an-hour before they managed to row together, both finally pulling in harmony. Twice they found themselves right back up on the beach again and needed another push. But they finally got the boat right out, away from the gritty sand on the shore-line.

They rowed out to where the water was out of their depth. It was cold and clear. Sophie could see under the water, rocks and stones that now had assumed strange, marvellous colours. She dabbled her hand in the water trying to catch the sunlight that danced beneath her fingers.

‘Look, Soph. There’s a sand-dab, and a crab!’ Hugh was leaning overboard, peering into the water.

‘Take care, Hugh! You’ll capsize us!’

The rest of the morning they rowed back and forth across the harbour. They were too nervous to go near the pier in case they bumped into it or into the boats moored near it, so they paddled along by the side of the slip. They each took turns rowing on their own – one giving orders and being captain and the other pulling The Londoner through the water. Grandfather was watching them still, smoking his pipe. He waved to them in the distance. ‘Stay in the harbour!’ he shouted. ‘Be home for lunch!’

By lunchtime they both had blisters on their hands. Hugh had a huge watery blob on his palm.

‘Don’t burst it,’ warned Sophie. ‘It’ll only make it sorer.’

‘I don’t care, Soph, I just can’t wait to get back in the boat again. C’mon, let’s get home for lunch – quick!’

They managed to edge The Londoner on to the North Beach and Mr Furlong helped them to pull it up the beach to where it was dry. They’d be back later, ready to row again. Just imagine – their own boat would be there, waiting for them.

On Sunday, Grandfather and Sophie and Hugh had been invited to tea by Aunt Dolly.

Grandfather had rooted out an old navy-and-grey striped blazer from his wardrobe. There was a slight smell of mothballs from it, but he didn’t seem to notice. Hugh wore his new clothes and Sophie put on the floral-print skirt, to please the aunts, and her new white shirt.

They walked beside Grandfather up through the town, turning at last into the area called the Burnaby. Here, a winding cluster of leafy paths and roadways led to tall gabled houses that peeped out from behind climbing clematises and ivies.

Grandfather came to a halt outside an enormous white house, with green-painted gables and a matching green wooden veranda which skirted the lower half of the house. The house was called ‘Four Corners’. Grandfather fiddled impatiently with the rusty catch on the gate.

‘Dolly! We’re here!’ he shouted.

Sophie and Hugh could not believe it – imagine anyone in their family living in such a big house!

Their grandaunt appeared, flustered as usual. ‘Welcome, children! Do come inside!’ she said.

She led them through a dim cluttered hallway where the sunlight spattered through the stained-glass of the door, to a
large drawing room that overlooked the garden.

‘Be careful not to knock anything over!’ Sophie whispered to Hugh, giving him a nudge in the ribs, as her eyes took in the haphazard arrangement of comfortable floral-covered couches and the side-tables jammed with ornaments and pieces of silver and sparkling decorated cut-glass, which were probably worth a fortune.

Hugh’s attention was riveted on the strange bent-up shape of a balding man, who was leaning sideways in a wheelchair. The room seemed to be centred around him.

‘Darling George! Do wake up! Look who’s here! It’s Jerome and his grandchildren,’ said Aunt Dolly brightly. ‘They are called Sophie and Hugh – you remember, I told you about them. They were stuck in London during those awful bombings!’

The figure jerked, as if trying to upright itself, then from his twisted face, their granduncle smiled at them.

Grandfather walked forwards and clasped the gnarled-up hands firmly. ‘It’s me, Jerome! How are you, George?’

He beckoned to the children to come closer, sensing their discomfort. ‘Your Uncle George had a stroke a few years ago,’ he explained matter-of-factly. ‘Come on, now! Come and say hello to him!’ he ordered.

Hugh hung back behind Sophie.

‘Pleased to meet you!’ murmured Sophie nervously.

‘Ne … Neil’s daughter,’ Uncle George struggled to speak to her.

‘Yes. That’s right,’ smiled Sophie.

‘Always … always liked Neil.’

‘He’s away someplace in Africa, fighting in the war,’ said Sophie.

‘Dolly and I went to Africa … long, long time ago …’ He yawned, tired from the effort.

Sophie hoped that he would mention more about her father, but he didn’t, his mind seemed to have wandered off to something else.

Hugh shook his hand quickly, then scampered off to the far side of the room.

A heavy awkward silence fell between them all as they sat formally in the drawing room. No one knew what to say and Sophie longed to escape. It was like divine inspiration when Aunt Dolly suggested she’d show them the garden and the grass tennis court while Maud organised the tea.

Aunt Dolly opened the french doors, and led them down some steps and through a maze of flower beds and rose bushes to a square of lawn, which formed a rather scraggly-looking tennis court. But the grass was freshly mown, and the smell tickled Sophie’s nose.

‘Maud touched up the marking lines and managed to find a net,’ said their aunt, pointing to the narrow strip of painted grass and the thin droopy net blowing gently in the breeze. ‘We thought, perhaps, yourself and Hugh might enjoy playing sometimes – if you were bored,’ she added kindly.

‘Thank you. Thank you so much. That would be very nice!’ replied Sophie. There was no point in telling her that neither of them had a clue how to play tennis – it was not the sort of game children in Bury Street and Grove Avenue played. Still, she imagined it would be great fun trying to hit
the balls over the net to each other.

‘We used to have tennis parties here in the old days,’ said Aunt Dolly, dreamily. ‘It was lovely then. Susan and Teddy and their friends. It’s such a shame to see it going to waste.’

‘Did my father ever play tennis here?’ asked Sophie, curious.

‘What a question, my dear! Of course he did. I’ll have you know, your father was a very good player. He could run rings round his cousin Teddy.’

Hugh interrupted them by making a sudden charge at the net, and swinging against it.

‘Stop it, Hugh!’ shouted Sophie, ‘you’ll break it!’

‘Hugh, come inside with me, and we’ll find you a racquet and some tennis balls!’ offered their aunt.

Trust Hugh! Just when she was trying to get some information from her grandaunt, he had to come along and spoil it. Aunt Maud announced that tea was ready, so now they had to go back into that stuffy drawing room.

A large silver tray sat on a sturdy mahogany table. There was a plate of scones, and another plate with little triangular sandwiches – cucumber, shrimp paste and tomato. There was also a large fruit cake, and, best of all, fresh eclairs, bursting with cream.

Hugh licked his lips. ‘Golly!’ The children hadn’t seen a spread like this since the war started.

‘Well done, Maud!’ cheered Aunt Dolly, and they all whole-heartedly agreed.

Aunt Maud took a plate and put three sandwiches on it, and filled a cup with tea, adding milk and sugar, then she
went over and sat beside Uncle George. Sophie watched as her aunt broke the sandwiches into tiny pieces, which she fed to their uncle, carefully, bit by bit. Then she would raise the cup to his lips, encouraging him to swallow the tea. Once or twice it sounded like uncle George was nearly choking, which gave the children a terrible fright.

‘Ever since his stroke, his swallow hasn’t been the best,’ explained Aunt Dolly. ‘I don’t know what we’d do without Maud.’

Grandfather interrupted his eating. ‘Luckily for us all, Maud trained as a nurse and was able to come and help out.’

Aunt Maud was blushing now, a stain of red running from her neck right up the wide taut cheekbones. She suddenly appeared softer and less crow-like.

‘It was the very least I could do,’ she said, planting a light kiss on the patient’s head. ‘I was always very fond of poor George.’

Hugh had moved to sit close by Grandfather. He was rather nervous of the others.

‘Terrible about Belfast!’ murmured Aunt Dolly. ‘They’re trying to destroy the shipyards.’

‘That’s what they’re hoping to do. Stop production. Stop the British Navy getting any more ships,’ interjected Aunt Maud angrily.

Sophie ate as the adults began a long discussion of what Belfast was like before the war, in the ‘good old days’. Hugh started to kick the corner of the couch, despite all Sophie’s warning glances.

‘Come on, young man! Let’s get a breath of fresh air!’ Grandfather stood up stiffly.

‘Oh, I must fetch the racquets for the boy!’ said Aunt Dolly, replacing her cup on the tray. ‘Maybe the two of you will play?’

Uncle George had closed his eyes and seemed to be dozing. A tiny dribble of saliva ran down his chin. Aunt Maud dabbed it gently with a napkin.

‘Dolly! You keep an eye on George, while Jerome and I have a bit of a walk. I’ll get the racquets. I won’t be long. Sophie, you might give Dolly a hand with the clearing up?’

Aunt Dolly and Sophie watched as the tall angular figure of the old man limped along beside the small lively boy, and the broad sturdy figure of Aunt Maud in her grey knitted suit. She carried two battered-looking tennis racquets under her arm, and was engrossed in conversation.

Aunt Dolly turned back from the window. ‘They’re discussing medical matters. She’s telling him that George is getting worse.’

‘I’m so sorry!’ whispered Sophie.

‘Jerome is a fine doctor,’ said her aunt, ‘he’ll know what to do. You know, having the two of you to take care of – well, it’s changing him. He’d shut himself off, away from people.’

Sophie did not like to disillusion her aunt by telling her that her beloved brother still spent most of his day shut away in his study. Behind them Uncle George snored noisily, his head flopped forward.

‘Come on! Let’s put these tea-things away in the kitchen!’
chided her aunt.

As they returned from the kitchen, Sophie noticed another, much smaller, room.

‘That’s the morning room. My piano is in it,’ said Aunt Dolly, ushering her into the peace of the yellow-painted room. A small circular table stood in front of the window, and against the wall was a piano, an array of family photographs and portraits on top of it.

‘Do you still play?’ enquired Sophie, staring at the collection of black-and-white prints in front of her.

‘Yes!’ she nodded. ‘I find it very relaxing. It makes me forget about all the bad things around me.’

‘Me too! I mean, that’s what happens when I sing.’

Her grandaunt’s face creased into a smile, her blue eyes twinkling as she rummaged in the cluttered music box beneath the piano stool. ‘Let me find some music! Now, let me see …’

Sophie used the chance to study the photographs. They were mostly of a much younger dapper-looking Uncle George, and always beside him a shy gentle woman, her hair slightly frizzed as she squinted into the camera – it was Aunt Dolly. In two or three photos, a good-looking dark-haired young man and a slightly bored-looking girl posed in a family group with them.

‘That’s our Teddy and my beautiful daughter Susan,’ her aunt informed her. ‘She’s married out in Canada and Teddy lives in Dublin.’

Up in the top corner, there was an old brown photograph of a vaguely familiar tall man. He was rowing a small boat,
and beside him were two smiling girls.

‘That’s Jerome and myself and Maud. It was taken at Oxford. He took us out rowing on the river.’ Both eyes travelled automatically to the next picture. ‘That’s Jerome’s wedding.’

Grandfather was wearing a dark suit that looked too small for him and beside him stood a beautiful dark-haired girl in a long-sleeved beaded dress, a long veil flowing down over her bobbed hair.

‘That’s your grandmother, Julianne. She was English.’

‘She’s very pretty,’ murmured Sophie.

‘Yes, she certainly was. Jerome fell head-over-heels in love with her. He had just finished his studies when they met.’

‘Tell me about her … about them, please!’ cajoled Sophie.

Aunt Dolly ruffled the music sheets, opened the lid of the piano and sat on the stool. ‘He loved her very much – nearly too much, I’d say. Your Aunt Maud introduced them. It was love at first sight. They got married within a few months. Jerome was working in a hospital in London. He was a surgeon – they say he was very good. Then came the war!’

‘The Great War?’

‘Yes! Men were dying in their thousands. Dreadful wounds, dreadful injuries. Doctors and nurses were needed urgently. I remember the stories Maud used to tell me – I fainted once, just hearing about it. Anyway, Jerome went off. But they had no proper operating tables, no equipment, no medicines – it was beyond belief what one human being was doing to another, or so we thought then. Maud drove
an ambulance. Poor Jerome had to operate under appalling conditions.’

‘Did he get shot or bombed?’ interrupted Sophie. ‘Was that how he lost his leg?’

‘No!’ said her aunt softly. ‘Nothing glorious like that. He got gangrene!’

‘Ugh!’ Sophie recoiled. She had heard stories from her teacher in school. Mrs Kellett had told them of men crowded together, lying in pools of urine and blood, bitten by fleas, delirious, choked by mustard gas, and of rats the size of cats …

‘Another surgeon had to amputate his leg,’ said her aunt with pain in her voice.

‘What about Julianne?’

‘They came back to live in Ireland, here in Greystones. Jerome had to give up his dream of surgery. He became a family doctor instead.’

Further along the wall, Sophie noticed another photograph of Grandfather and her grandmother and two small boys in funny sailor suits.

‘Is that my dad?’ enquired Sophie, peering at the picture.

‘Yes,’ nodded her grandaunt.

But then, who was the other boy, with the curly fair hair and cheeky grin? As if reading her mind, Aunt Dolly touched the picture, ‘And that is his brother Peter.’

Without thinking, Sophie let the words slip out. ‘I didn’t know Dad had a brother!’ she gasped.

Aunt Dolly seemed to suck in a slow exasperated breath. ‘Neil should have told you!’

‘Where’s Peter now? Does Grandfather still see him?’ Sophie was breathless with excitement.

‘Peter died, Sophie,’ Aunt Dolly said, her eyes filling with tears, ‘he drowned a few days before his eighth birthday.’

‘Drowned!’ exclaimed Sophie. ‘On the beach?’

‘No!’ said Aunt Dolly. ‘It was in the Cove. Neil and himself were down catching crabs. Those rocks are very slippery and when the tide turns the Cove becomes a trap. Well, nobody really knows what happened. Neil had gone farther along the rocks, and Peter was at one of those little rock-pools, and when Neil turned around and came back his brother was gone. His net and bucket were there still. Neil called and called, but eventually assumed his brother had just gone home on his own.

‘But Peter wasn’t at home. It was truly an awful, awful time. Jerome and Julianne were out of their minds with worry and grief … then the searching and waiting until they found him.’ Her aunt sighed heavily. ‘It was so long ago, but sometimes it seems just like yesterday.’

‘Poor Peter!’ murmured Sophie. ‘And my poor Dad.’

‘It was so unfair, but your grandfather blamed Neil for what happened. Boys will be boys, George and I tried to tell him, but Jerome, I suppose, was too stubborn to listen. He didn’t want to hear. Instead, he immersed himself in his work, became totally engrossed with medicine and his patients, and began to lecture to medical students. He had lost one son and seemed to want to block out and forget the other one.’