The Emerald Valley (54 page)

‘Seb'll get him,' Tom said. ‘Stupid idiot – wonder who it is? Some holidaymaker, I suppose.'

The scene was set like a tableau: the sea, deceptively calm, hiding its dangerous swirls and eddies but strong enough to pull the best of swimmers out and down; the two heads bobbing; the widening fringe of watchers at the water's edge. Seb was nearer now and Ted thought: Tom's right. Seb will get him this time. But still he did not relax. His own muscles were taut and flooded with adrenalin, part of his mind alert and waiting, his eyes strained out to sea. The currents were so treacherous, so unreadable. Until Seb had the swimmer safely on the beach, nothing was certain.

A few more yards and suddenly they saw the even stoke falter.

‘He's in trouble!' Tom shouted.

It was as if the lifeguard had suddenly stopped swimming. His arms still moved, but he was no longer making ground towards the flailing figure.

‘Christ, Tom, he needs help!' As Ted spoke he was peeling off his shirt and Tom too sprang into action, vaulting the tea-stall and yanking at the buttons of his own shirt.

‘Come on!'

There was no time to worry about the dangers, no time to be afraid of the deadly, treacherous currents. It never occurred to Ted that he too might be swallowed up by the dark water – his own safety was as unimportant a part of his reckoning as it had been when he had crawled on to the battlefield in France in a vain attempt to rescue a young fallen soldier. If he had thought at all he would probably have retained faith in his own immortality – others die, I go on for ever. But there was no time for thinking beyond the certain knowledge that two men were in peril in the foaming water and he himself was a strong and confident swimmer. Learned first in the river at home as a boy, the art had been practised and perfected through the years of working at coastal resorts, and as he and Tom reached the water's edge neck and neck and the breakers splashed cold as ice on his sun warmed legs, he did not flinch.

A few steps and the water was waist-deep. Ted dived into a wave and began swimming strongly. At first it was easy – the ebb tide carried him away from the shore and as he breasted each wave, he could see the bobbing heads nearer than before. Seb was now close to the swimmer in trouble and, thinking he might yet reach him, almost turned back. But some perverse instinct kept him going and as he rode the next wave he was astonished to see Seb further away again – flailing, struggling.

The edge of the current, Ted thought; there must be an undertow there. Useless to try making straight for the drowning boy; he would only hit the undertow as both the others had done. He changed direction, swimming parallel with the shore. Then as he turned out to sea once more a large wave caught him, buffeting him backwards and filling his mouth and nose with stinging salt water. Coughing and gasping, he fought to right himself and trod water for a moment. A second wave caught him still breathless, but he managed to avoid another mouthful and his next view, of the other swimmers showed him Seb farther than ever from the now clearly panicking boy.

He's going to drown, Ted thought. Unless I can get to him quickly, it will be too late. He struck out seawards again, his thoughts now all channelled, tunnel-like, to his single objective.
Get to the boy.
Sure enough his strategy seemed to be working and the tide and his own strong strokes took him closer, almost within reach. The boy had seen him and had a view of his face for the first time – young, thirteen or fourteen perhaps, drenched, terrified, exhausted. Another stroke and Ted too felt the undertow. With all his might he battled against it. Two strokes, three … almost within reach. He opened his mouth to yell to the boy to hold on and the sea water filled it, making him choke again. His eyes were stinging now as well as his throat, but it was almost as if he was detached from his own body. The channelled mind could think of nothing but the boy. Another stroke, another he couldn't get closer, for the waves were negating all his efforts. But the boy was trying to reach him now; he struck out with wild kicks and suddenly lunged for Ted, grabbing his shoulders with vice-like hands, struggling in terror and dragging him down. Realisation of the new danger burst on Ted like an exploding shell the moment before the water closed over his head:

Drowning men drown their rescuers.

The clinging arms were everywhere, octopus-like, the boy's strength suddenly enormous. Ted struggled to free himself, aware with that small thinking part of his brain that now he had to fight not only the sea but also the boy. After seemingly endless moments his head broke the surface again and he gasped life-giving air into his bursting lungs; then the boy's grip tightened once more and they were under again. Down, down, then back to the surface, water swallowed with air and coughed out again, hands pushing, grabbing, fighting – and all the while, the sea pulling at his legs.

Ted's swimming experience had never included life-saving. Seb would have known how to deal with the boy had he been the one to reach him first. Ted did not. But instinct was strong. It's him or me, Ted thought, and as they both broke surface coughing and spluttering, somehow he managed to free his right arm. Then hastily, before the boy could grab him again, he brought his fist crashing into the lad's screaming, gasping face. Life-saving experience Ted might lack, but in his time he had done plenty of fighting. Briefly, before the sea closed over him again, he saw the boy's expression turn to one of surprise, then he went limp and his deadly grasp around Ted's neck and body relaxed. Ted pushed him away, surfacing and fighting to regain breath. The boy was sinking, washed over by the relentless waves, and all Ted could see was his hair, like brown floating seaweed. As his own panic receded, so determination returned and he grabbed for the boy's hair. Technique was unimportant now; swimming – and holding onto that tuft of stringy wet hair – was all that mattered.

From somewhere Ted found a reserve of strength he had not known he possessed. On to his side he went, grasping the boy's hair with one hand and swimming with the other, kicking strongly with legs kept going only by that miraculous fount of inner strength. The battle now was enormous, the waves seemed intent on taking him further out to sea. But somehow he kept going – Jack, pull, hold on, swim. He could see the beach, horrifyingly far away, with the mass of helpless figures at the water's edge. Would it never come closer? Kick, pull, swim! Behind him half-covered by water, the boy was unconscious now. Swim, for Christ's sake, swim – or you'll take in a corpse! Is the coast nearer? How can it be so far away? I shall never make it! Yes, you will. Keep going, Ted. Keep going!

The one thing which never occurred to Ted was to let go of the boy and save himself. It was unthinkable that all this should be for nothing. Exhausted, arms and legs aching with weakness, he fought on. The waves buffeted, lifted and dropped him, and salt in his eyes meant that now he could hardly see and the beach was not only distant but blurred too. The sea seemed to be in him as well as all around him. He was a part of it, yet somehow separate, a small insignificant entity. For the first time he felt awe for the enormity of the ocean, its power and invincibility. But it was a fleeting impression only. His whole being was concentrated on reaching that distant shore and on keeping those aching, shaking limbs pumping.

Slowly, painfully slowly, he pressed forward. For what seemed like a lifetime, he appeared to be making no progress at all. Then, almost unexpectedly, he realised he was closer and new determination lent him fresh strength. The tide was still running strongly, but gradually he was beating it. He forced himself on, trying not to notice that the gap, though narrower, was still daunting.
All that effort and I'm still so far out!
No, don't think of that. Just keep going!

And then, suddenly, his legs dipped and he felt shingle beneath his feet. Strangely, instead of refreshing him, the contact seemed to drain him momentarily. He gasped, taking in another mouthful of sea-water which almost choked him.

There was a mist in front of his eyes now, blotting out the beach, and the sea seemed to be thundering in his ears. Oh God, all this and I'm going to drown! he thought. But there was no more panic, only peace. And in the thundering of the waves he seemed to hear a voice, a woman's voice – crooning, gentle, speaking wordlessly to him, urging him on. With his last remaining strength he responded to it, his limbs moving automatically, his senses dazed by exhaustion. A little further – a little further …

And then, just as he felt he could keep going no longer, there were people in the water around him, hands reaching for him. Briefly he felt the urge to fight them as he had fought with the drowning boy, but he had no energy left. Dimly he was aware that he was still holding on to that handful of hair; hands were prising his fingers loose. There were voices, but he could not make out the words; they were indistinct, coming from a long way off. His feet were on the shingle now, the grit shifting beneath his toes as he stood up. He saw someone lift the boy bodily; he lay limp in the rescuing arms, his head lolling, that life-saving hair flopping wetly across the broad, sunburned forearm.

Somehow Ted kept walking until the water reached only his thighs, then his knees. An unexpected wave hit him from behind, covering his back once more and the resulting undertow shifted the sand from beneath his feet. Suddenly his knees were buckling, the water was rushing up to meet him. His chin went under, grazing the ground, and the sea covered his head. And as the roaring grew loud in his ears once more, Ted lost consciousness.

Afterwards, looking back on the scene on the beach which followed the rescue, Ted always saw it as fragmented scenes of a nightmare – some parts standing out in vivid relief, some unreal, as if it had not happened to him at all.

There had been a crowd around him when he regained consciousness, but a silent crowd gaping in awe and half-enjoyed horror. The beach had been gritty and warm beneath his skin, the sun beating down on his body. Yet he had felt cold, chilled to the marrow, teeth chattering when he tried to speak. He remembered thinking how funny it was to feel the heat of the sun and yet not be warmed by it, remembered wondering if his trousers had been ruined by the salt water and, most stupid of all, whether there was a queue for bathing-chairs because he was not there to deal with it. But these were the acceptable reactions busying his mind, keeping it from thoughts too horrific to contemplate.

He was lucky to be alive. Ted knew it the moment he opened his eyes and saw the sky blue above him, and briefly savoured the full thrill of living. He was lucky to be alive something, or someone had been looking after him.

But others had not been so lucky.

Tom, who ran to the sea with him, as anxious to help as Ted had been, was dead – lost in those same treacherous currents. So too was a holiday maker, a man whose name Ted never even knew. Seb, the lifeguard, struggled exhausted back to the beach and was to spend the rest of his life beneath a burden of unjustifiable shame because in the event he had been unable to carry out the job for which he had been trained and was paid.

But the boy, a local lad who should have known better than to swim when the red flags were flying, was alive. After a spell in the local hospital he was released, none the worse for his brush with death. Because of his bravado and foolishness, two men were dead and two other lives changed for ever.

For in the aftermath of gratitude and anger, pride and humility, Ted was sure of only one thing: his days of drifting were over. By some miracle his life had been spared and it was time he did something with it.

And the one thing he wanted to do was marry Rosa.

As she so often did, Charlotte heard the news from Peggy, who came bursting in waving the morning's edition of the
Daily Mirror.

‘Lotty – have you seen this? It's your Ted!'

‘Our Ted? Whatever are you talking about?'

‘Here – look – on the front of this paper!'

‘Oh, Peg, it can't be!' Charlotte exclaimed. But she took the paper from Peggy all the same and gasped as she saw the photograph, identical to the one Ted had given Rosa. ‘Oh my Lord, it is! Whatever has he been up to?'

‘Read it, Lotty!' Peggy was bursting with excitement. ‘He's only saved a boy – that's what he's done! And two other men got drowned trying! Oh, I couldn't believe it when I saw it first! I had to get our Colwyn to read it as well, to prove I wasn't dreaming. But your Ted – well, he always was a one to leap in where angels fear to tread, wasn't he?'

‘Hush up, Peggy!' said Charlotte. ‘I'm trying to read what it says.'

‘What be going on out there?' James called from the kitchen.

‘It's your Ted! He's a hero, that's what!' Peggy went running in, intent on being the one to spread the news, while Charlotte pored over the
Mirror.

Like Peggy, she could hardly believe it, even though the photograph was unmistakably Ted, and the report was there in black and white before her eyes, under the banner headline:

SEAFRONT BATHING DRAMA – GALLANT RESCUE BY FORMER COLLIER

‘Our Ted!' she whispered. ‘Oh, my Lord!' She was shaking all over.

‘Are you all right, Lotty?' Peggy asked, coming back into the scullery. ‘You've gone as white as a sheet. Come on, let's put the kettle on and have a cup of tea.'

‘I shall be fine in a minute, Peg. It's just such a shock! I can't take it in. And two men drowned! That could have been our Ted! Whatever will he do next?'

‘But he wasn't drowned, Lotty, so there's no point in thinking about it,' Peggy said sensibly. ‘Sit down and I'll put the kettle on.'

Charlotte did as she was told, but she was quite unable to stay still for two minutes. ‘Silly boy! Fancy going into the sea with the flags flying! You'd think he'd have had more sense …'