The House at Mermaid's Cove(32)

I closed the book and put out the lamp. Outside the rain was still lashing down. The noise of the wind screaming up the estuary was far louder than the enemy planes I’d heard a few nights ago. I fell into a restless sleep, full of wild and troubled dreams. The only one I remembered when I woke up was a scrambled version of the story I’d been reading. The pirate had Jack’s face and the woman had Merle’s. And as I watched them sail away, I was holding the hands of two children, who were crying. But the children were not English. They were African.



The storm was still raging the next day. Waves whipped up the estuary, spitting foam onto the beach, making the sand look as if it had a covering of snow. Then the rain came again, washing it all away.

Returning from the farm, the path down through the valley was so slippery I had to grab at tree trunks to stop me from falling. The bark of the giant ferns felt rough and hairy, like the hides of the cows I’d been milking. Even with the rain lashing down, the valley was a magical place. The perfume of the rhododendrons and camellias was intensified, and the volume of water in the stream amplified the trickle into a symphony of sound. I stood there for a moment, sheltering under the unfurling leaves of a giant rhubarb. It was like being in a green cathedral. I shut my eyes and breathed in the cool, scented air. I felt closer to God in this place than I had in a long time.



The next morning the weather was no better. The rain blurred the horizon, turning sky and sea into a curtain of slate gray. I wrapped myself in a tarpaulin sheet that smelled of fish and started up the muddy path. It was a good thing my foot was no longer giving me any pain; otherwise I doubt I’d have made it to the farm.

I could hear the Land Girls long before I reached the milking shed. They were back from their Easter break and were catching up with each other’s escapades, raucous laughter punctuating every other sentence.

“Good morning!” I had to shout to be heard above the clamor.

A sudden hush descended. Edith had been in the middle of describing what she and a Spitfire pilot had got up to in a bus shelter outside a dance hall in Birmingham. Apparently she considered it too racy for my ears.

“We’re glad to see you,” Marjorie, the older woman, piped up. “We’re one short this morning—Janet’s in hospital.”

“In hospital? Why? What’s happened?”

“She was knocked down by a car.” Marjorie clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “She’s all right—but her hip’s in plaster.”

Edith took up the story, filling in the details. Janet had been on her way to catch the train back to Cornwall when the accident happened. Because of the blackout, she hadn’t spotted a car coming toward her when she crossed the road. “The weather made it worse,” Edith said. “I think the whole country must have had this rain. We nearly didn’t get here this morning—there’s flooding all along the road from our village.”

I walked along the row of animals waiting to be milked and sat down on the stool that would have been Janet’s. I wondered if I could find out the name of the hospital she was in and write to her. I was about to ask when I heard Jack’s voice.

“Is my cousin here?”

“Over there.” Marjorie, who was nearest the door, pointed to where I sat.

I looked up and saw three heads turn Jack’s way, following him with their eyes as he came toward me. Rita raised a hand to smooth her glossy auburn bun as he strode past her.

“Good morning, Alice.” There was a terseness in his voice, and no hint of a smile. “I need you to come with me.” Something in his eyes told me not to ask why. I felt the others watching me as I followed him out of the shed.

“There’s been an accident,” Jack said when we were out of earshot. “A fisherman from the village crushed his leg trying to land his boat. The road from Falmouth’s flooded—we can’t get him to hospital and no doctor can get through.” He pushed his hair off his forehead. The skin beneath was glistening with perspiration. “You’re the only person around here with any medical knowledge.”

“Where is he?”

“They’ve taken him back to his house. They think his leg might be broken, but they’re not sure. And he’s lost a lot of blood.”

“What’s his name? Where does he live?”

“It’s Leo Badger—Rose Cottage. I’ll take you there.”

“No. You go back to the house and get me bandages, iodine, a needle, and strong cotton—and something to make a splint. I can find my own way.”

He searched my face, surprised, it seemed, that I’d taken command of the situation. “Yes—all right. I’ll see you there.”

Rose Cottage wasn’t hard to find. It was near the fish cellar where I’d seen men mending their nets when I’d gone with Merle to meet the children. It was the end house in a terrace of three, sheltered from the sea wind by the school building. It had a tiny, well-kept vegetable garden. A fig tree, as well as a rosebush, grew up and around the front door.

Leo Badger was lying on a table in the small downstairs room with a pillow under his head. His weather-beaten face was taut with pain, his lips lost in the white whiskers that framed them. He looked as if he were afraid to open his mouth, ashamed, perhaps, to reveal to the men gathered around him just how agonizing his injury was.