Almost Eden, page 38
‘Then we call the police,’ I offered her. ‘OK?’
The hot shower felt good, I savoured it, and it helped to calm my nerves. Fresh clothes on, I glanced at the rabbit on the landing before heading downstairs, the old house feeling like it was shaking from the thunder and lightning.
‘You OK?’ I asked Sophie.
‘I would have never thought it possible,’ she began. ‘All this at Aunt Betty’s place, and you.’
‘Me?’ I queried.
‘Yes, you’ve changed so much in just a few weeks.’
‘Not my doing,’ I protested. ‘I’ve been swept along; my feet haven’t touched the damn floor.’
‘It’s odd, but you’re more like when we were young.’
Ben piped up with, ‘Yeah, Dad; when we were young there were always dead bodies on the lawn – I miss those days.’
Sophie slapped Ben’s arm, my son seemingly impervious to that which scared the hell out of me. He was either a very brave lad, very ignorant, or a complete bloody idiot – and the vote was not in yet. I made a mental note to compare his DNA with mine.
Storm blowing, we stayed inside, Robby busying himself in the cellar. I stepped down to him mid-afternoon, and I always made a point of asking his advice, so that he felt included in things.
‘This cellar is below the hide tide mark,’ I commented. ‘You think there could be a problem with a high spring tide.’
He studied the drain. ‘I can put summit on drain, heavy bag over. It’s possible for some water, aye.’
‘Maybe we should cover it, just in case.’
At the other end of the cellar I inspected the old pipe that came from the underground reservoir. ‘This wont leak, will it?’
‘No, I cut pipe tother end, blocked it good.’
‘Have you ever grown mushrooms?’
‘I find some in woods time to time, aye.’
‘They say that they’ll grow indoors, in a cellar.’
‘Could try some, see if they grows in these bright lights.’
‘This wood could be used for shelving,’ I pointed out.
‘Aye, was thinking ‘bout that. I’ll make summit up, strong shelf or two, stack up ‘em tins.’
‘These tins, this food, it’s not just for me, it’s to share with you as well if there’re problem out there.’
‘You’s good to me, Mister Roger.’
‘Without you, I might be dead now, or gone. So don’t sell yourself short.’ I took a moment. ‘Did you get along with your own father?’
‘He wuz a bad’un, that one. He drank, he hit me ma, and he hit me. But he ended up with the jail, stealing stuff he was.’
‘And your mother?’
‘Lazy, she is. She takes the dole, she sits and smokes, does bingo.’ He shrugged. ‘She don’t like no one, and no one don’t like her.’
‘I was blessed with good parents, and they taught me well. Well, they didn’t teach me what to do after divorce, their advice stopped at getting married and having kids. Still, they were dead before my wife divorced me.’
‘Why she divorce you?’
Thrusting my hands in my pockets, I stared the potato sacks. ‘I don’t really know; maybe she just felt I was … getting old.’
‘You ain’t old, not like Betty wuz.’
‘And I feel younger since I came here,’ I told him.
‘Did you hit her?’
I was not angered or insulted by the question, since it had not been meant that way. ‘No, I never hit her, I didn’t drink, I never saw other women, I was good with money, good with the children, created a great garden, decorated a nice house, and I was never late.’
‘What she complain ‘bout then?’
‘I wish I knew, my friend, I wish I knew.’
The storm raged all day, and it was hard to know exactly when a dark rainy day turned to a dark rainy night. We turned the radio on after our evening meal, a simple meal of potatoes and mince meat, but the outside world was about to creep a little closer – right into our living room.
As we listened, the newscaster detailed a country that sounded like a bad zombie movie, riots in most towns and cities, soldiers now deployed, armed police, dozens of looters shot dead. I could see Sophie’s concern, and I was tempted to turn the news off, but I also very much wanted to know what was going on out there.
France had seen large-scale riots in many cities, and Greece seemed to have been vacated by all - other than those wanting to set fire to shops and offices. Greece was put off-limits to all UK citizens, London now home to three hundred thousand Greek refugees. Listening to what was happening in London, I bet they now wished they were back home.
Italy was falling apart, Spain was seeing mass protests followed by mass riots, Lisbon in Portugal was on fire, and tales were being told of UK citizens getting stuck abroad.
Sophie called Wendy, stepping out of the room. When she returned, she informed us that Wendy was still on the island of Jersey, and that she might stay there till things were better.
‘Best place for her,’ I told the kids. ‘Plenty of farmland and fishing. She’ll be fine.’
‘And our house?’ Ben asked me directly, meaning our old family home. ‘No bugger there to protect it.’
‘It’s well away from the city, quiet area,’ I assured him. ‘And we have good neighbours. I’m sure they’d ring if there was a problem.’
‘And then what?’ Ben pressed.
‘Then …’ I hesitated. ‘Sorry, Ben, but I’m not driving there. I may not make it, and I may not make it back. I could load up fuel and food, but…’
‘I’m not driving across the country,’ Sophie insisted. ‘And I don’t want to be back in London till this is sorted.’
‘And you, Ben?’ I nudged.
‘This is the best place in the country right now. Food, fuel, wind turbine, water wheel, fishing, chickens, rabbits – and guns. Could last out here forever.’
‘Well,’ I proudly began. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘I’m amazed you’ve done all this,’ Sophie told me. ‘And really proud.’
‘I can’t claim all of the credit, Aunt Betty helped, so did Robby, even my old firm helped along the way. I’ll tell you a true story: when I realised that I wouldn’t be able to get planning permission for this place, it was Robby that gave me the idea of green energy – to attract people that might want to be isolated and off-grid. I had absolutely no intention of retiring down here, or going off-grid. This -’ I lifted my hands. ‘- was thrust upon me by the ghost of Aunt Betty – god rest her soul.’
Storm raging, we claimed our beds knowing that only a mad man would venture out in this weather. Such thoughts did not bode well, since I figured that the area harboured a mad man or two. I made a point of closing my door this time, rabbit and puppies denied a room to play in, and with the light out I stared through the window, unable to see a damn thing on the beach side.
Peering through my window facing the sea, the bulb that Ben had set up was glowing brightly, so brightly I had images of large ships running aground on our beach. The storm had brought the rain, and the water wheel was going around as if driven by a demented hamster.
Knocking off the room light, Ben’s bulb now lit my curtains, and it wobbled on its pole in the gale, fingers of light dancing across my ceiling as if I had erected a typically 1976 glitter ball. For a moment it took me back, then just got real damned annoying.
I heard Ben get up, utter a curse on the stairs, and return after the light had gone out. He had pulled the plug, and ships would not now mistake us for a local lighthouse and beach themselves.
My windows whistled, and I made a note to do something about that soon, some Polyfilla and a little tape, paint in the cracks. I managed to doze off, but I remember waking a few times, the storm raging.
Driftwood
Dawn offered broken clouds and a stiff breeze, and a pile of wood on the beach, not to mention a boat that had again beached itself. It even looked like the previously beached boat. Peering down from my window on the beach side, I could see a log completely blocking the coastal path, a huge thing, but a pale log that appeared as if it had been sanded down to a smooth finish.
Dressed and down, wrapped up warm, I ventured out, and I stood puzzling the scene before me. It looked like half the damn Amazon rain forest had been washed up on my beach. And as I advanced down the beach I found hundreds of wooden planks of a uniform length. It was as if a cargo ship had sunk, shedding its load of Scandinavian timber.
Stepping over and around the logs and timber, I discovered a large foam life belt, the kind that a tourist might find hanging on Salcombe sea front. It was an amazing display of flotsam, but also disheartening; it would take a week to clean the damn beach up.
Reaching the boat I peeked inside, sure it was the same one. At the rear I checked its name, and it damn well was, leaving me stood shaking my head. Back at the house I found Robby in his oilskins.
‘I doubt that there’ll be many tracks for you to follow, Great White Hunter, not after that storm.’
‘No, but plenty of wood.’
‘Yes, and I intend keeping it, cutting it up and storing it – at least some of it. Those wooden planks, will they dry out?’
‘Aye.’
‘Then we’ll collect them and keep them, they could be used for shelving.’
Making Robby tea, Max slid down the stairs and righted himself, joining us, so I fed the early riser. An omelette was soon forming in the pan, a large omelette of seven eggs, toast popping up. Robby tucked in, salt and ketchup liberally applied to his omelette on toast.
Ben appeared, dressed warm, but his eyes were half closed. Issuing a huge yawn, he said, ‘Seen all that stuff outside?’
‘Yes, we’ll be collecting wood after breakfast, much is salvageable,’ I told him.
‘In that storm, the body would have washed up on the bloody Kingsbridge High Street,’ Ben suggested as he poured hot water on a tea bag.
I had forgotten all about the body. ‘Yes, I suppose.’
‘That guy will be back in his office this morning,’ Ben quipped.
‘Ben, he was upset at his son’s passing, and took his own life; not the subject of mockery.’
I got back a shoulder shrug.
My son’s ability to joke about these things was a source of amazement for me, and his coping with the problems that our country now faced both pleased me – and worried me in equal measures. He was coping better than I was, and seemed to accept each new turn of the screw as it came, and adjust accordingly.
After breakfast, Sophie and the rabbit now with us, Ben tried taking on Robby at arm wrestling, a lost cause from the start. Even using two hands he was not making any progress. I joined in, pulling Robby’s arm, soon using both of my hands, and even Sophie pushed. With Ben giving up, Robby was gently cursed from all sides, but stood with a grin.
‘You has some growing-up to do, young’un,’ he told Ben.
‘I’ll hit you with shovel,’ Ben warned.
‘Ben, that could damage a perfectly good shovel,’ I told him. ‘Use a bit of four-by-two like everyone else.
After a cup of tea, a large breakfast followed by a slow mug of coffee, my son finally joined us, soon carrying an arm full of damp timber. Sophie joined in, and the once vast cellar was now looking a bit tight in places. Many of the wooden planks were stood up against walls or placed on sacks, the hope being that the wood would dry out.
After a lunch break, the wind easing a little, we again ventured out as a family unit, the remainder of the timber collected. Next came obstacles, and we worked as a team to drag the huge log from the coastal path, a second log left parallel to the coast so that it did not block access along the path.
Stopping for a breather, I considered the boat, but then immediately considered that this would be the first place the owner would look for it. And I would say that I had called the police, a little white lie. For now, I held off reporting the beaching.
I grabbed a saw, Robby copying, and we began cutting the smaller limbs off the logs, stacking them at the back of the beach and not too far from the diesel tanker. Lengths around six feet long were thrown onto the pile, Ben busying himself with building a monster of a bonfire. Sophie collected the life belt, and hung it up on the house wall, a spot where a hanging basket must have once rested. It was a nice touch.
By the end of the day I was knackered, and there was still the mountain of sand in front of the house. Seeing the beach slowly clearing of driftwood, I wondered about the boat, then worried about it, since the next high tide might just smash it on the rocks. I heaved a big breath, and called the police.
‘Police?’
‘Sorry to trouble you, but a small boat has washed up on my private beach -’
‘We’re taking emergency calls only, sir. Thank you.’ And she hung up.
I was surprised, then not so surprised, as I considered that they might have their hands full, very full.
Before we lost the light I ventured down to the boat with Ben. We grabbed its anchor and chain, stretched it out and shoved the anchor into the sand, a heavy log placed on top. It was now very unlikely that any tide would move the boat, and the owner could collect it when he wished. But this time I would not be assisting him push the damn thing through the mud.
The wind continued to howl, and I spent half an hour working on my bedroom’s window frames, Polyfilla, paint and sticky tape applied, the finished product tested with an ear to the glass. And Ben, he had used a broken plastic plant pot to create a shade for he bulb outside the house, its light now angled away from our bedroom windows. Switch flicked, the bulb came to life, assisting anyone who might venture along the coastal path - having first negotiated the pig shit and barbed wire, plus the new assault course of beached logs.
The wind had eased by dawn, little in the way of whistling keeping me awake during the night, and after breakfast I grabbed a spade. Mine was not a difficult task: shovel up sand from against the front garden wall, turn and dump it a few feet away, as the coastal path sloped away to the mud. It was just that there appeared to be a hundred tonnes of it.
Robby joined in, Ben assisting after he had made his bonfire even larger, and Sophie brought us drinks. By the end of the day the path was mostly clear, the logs pushed onto the mud or stacked up, more of the flotsam cleared from the beach. And by the end of the day I was again exhausted. Still, I had a hell of an appetite, and potatoes and beans with scrambled eggs went down well, Sophie having kindly sat in the kitchen and peeled potatoes – not quite the best use of a budding doctor and a straight-A student.
The next day brought us a clear sky and little wind, and layers of clothing were duly peeled off. Ben busied himself sorting wood on the beach, Robby and myself erecting fencing between the top fields and the slope, since we could not see the top fields from the house, nor hope to spot anyone clambering over our fence if it surrounded those fields.
And it wasn’t much of a fence anyway, more of a deterrent than anything, at least this section we were installing. It stood little more than six feet high, and could be pulled down easily enough. Still, it labelled the inside of the fence as private property.
On Robby’s suggestion we moved to the woods, lugging each heavy fencing reel on the wheelbarrow. Above Robby’s cottage the road was skirted by a low stone wall, a wall that might only stop an inquisitive three-year-old from clambering over. Back from the wall, and into the woods, we laid wire fencing between trees, nailing the fence to the trees themselves, and now we benefited from a section of fence that would not be easily pulled down.
Four reels later, and much sweating and puffing, a section of fence a hundred yards long had been erected. Anyone wanting to approach from that side would have been deterred, and would walk either down to the coastal path – with its pig shit and barbed wire, or around to the make-do gate.
With Robby being persistent, we grabbed a reel of barbed wire and pushed the wheelbarrow up the access road and into the woods. Cutting sections of wire, we stretched them out between the trees, at a height of around seven feet, simply winding the wire around the trees, a few nails used. We now had a section of fence that would prove difficult to penetrate, but with gaps at the sides.
But the benefit was one of elimination; we knew we’d not have to worry about anyone sneaking about and approaching through the woods. At the base of the woods we utilised a National Trust sign, nailing barbed wire to it before stretching the wire to a tree. That exercise pointed towards the obvious weakness in our position, in that someone could simply walk around the fence by negotiating the sand and mud. Security, it seemed, would be based on the tide being in.
The last reel of barbed wire was used at a spot across the road from the Robby’s cottage; two gates to the top fields were well and truly barbed-up, forcing visitors over a five foot stone wall. Fortunately, the walls top consisted of flat stones angled upwards, and the stones slipped and fell when you put any weight on them. If nothing else, we’d injure the casual visitor.
Ben helped out with further reels of fencing, and later I peered from the toilet window, now seeing a line of green fencing stretching from the access road – down towards the diesel tanker. A gate sat in the middle, and it would be easy to scale. Still, I felt better, not in that we could prevent someone entering, but that we could stand on our side of the fence and shout at people the other side, shotguns and air rifles being brandished.
Sophie had spent much of the day in the greenhouse with the bedding plants, she had even seeded a dozen long plant trays for me, a patch of land raked and then dug with a hoe, carrots planted. At the evening meal she detailed to us what she had done, and what she would do the next day, my straight-A daughter applying her vast brain power to tiny seeds, their preferred soil conditions, and to their nutritional needs.
End of innocence
A shout from Sophie the next lunchtime, and I was worried, soon rushing out of the kitchen and up the slope. There, on the other side of the green fence, was a man, his fingers through the fence as he gripped it.
The hot shower felt good, I savoured it, and it helped to calm my nerves. Fresh clothes on, I glanced at the rabbit on the landing before heading downstairs, the old house feeling like it was shaking from the thunder and lightning.
‘You OK?’ I asked Sophie.
‘I would have never thought it possible,’ she began. ‘All this at Aunt Betty’s place, and you.’
‘Me?’ I queried.
‘Yes, you’ve changed so much in just a few weeks.’
‘Not my doing,’ I protested. ‘I’ve been swept along; my feet haven’t touched the damn floor.’
‘It’s odd, but you’re more like when we were young.’
Ben piped up with, ‘Yeah, Dad; when we were young there were always dead bodies on the lawn – I miss those days.’
Sophie slapped Ben’s arm, my son seemingly impervious to that which scared the hell out of me. He was either a very brave lad, very ignorant, or a complete bloody idiot – and the vote was not in yet. I made a mental note to compare his DNA with mine.
Storm blowing, we stayed inside, Robby busying himself in the cellar. I stepped down to him mid-afternoon, and I always made a point of asking his advice, so that he felt included in things.
‘This cellar is below the hide tide mark,’ I commented. ‘You think there could be a problem with a high spring tide.’
He studied the drain. ‘I can put summit on drain, heavy bag over. It’s possible for some water, aye.’
‘Maybe we should cover it, just in case.’
At the other end of the cellar I inspected the old pipe that came from the underground reservoir. ‘This wont leak, will it?’
‘No, I cut pipe tother end, blocked it good.’
‘Have you ever grown mushrooms?’
‘I find some in woods time to time, aye.’
‘They say that they’ll grow indoors, in a cellar.’
‘Could try some, see if they grows in these bright lights.’
‘This wood could be used for shelving,’ I pointed out.
‘Aye, was thinking ‘bout that. I’ll make summit up, strong shelf or two, stack up ‘em tins.’
‘These tins, this food, it’s not just for me, it’s to share with you as well if there’re problem out there.’
‘You’s good to me, Mister Roger.’
‘Without you, I might be dead now, or gone. So don’t sell yourself short.’ I took a moment. ‘Did you get along with your own father?’
‘He wuz a bad’un, that one. He drank, he hit me ma, and he hit me. But he ended up with the jail, stealing stuff he was.’
‘And your mother?’
‘Lazy, she is. She takes the dole, she sits and smokes, does bingo.’ He shrugged. ‘She don’t like no one, and no one don’t like her.’
‘I was blessed with good parents, and they taught me well. Well, they didn’t teach me what to do after divorce, their advice stopped at getting married and having kids. Still, they were dead before my wife divorced me.’
‘Why she divorce you?’
Thrusting my hands in my pockets, I stared the potato sacks. ‘I don’t really know; maybe she just felt I was … getting old.’
‘You ain’t old, not like Betty wuz.’
‘And I feel younger since I came here,’ I told him.
‘Did you hit her?’
I was not angered or insulted by the question, since it had not been meant that way. ‘No, I never hit her, I didn’t drink, I never saw other women, I was good with money, good with the children, created a great garden, decorated a nice house, and I was never late.’
‘What she complain ‘bout then?’
‘I wish I knew, my friend, I wish I knew.’
The storm raged all day, and it was hard to know exactly when a dark rainy day turned to a dark rainy night. We turned the radio on after our evening meal, a simple meal of potatoes and mince meat, but the outside world was about to creep a little closer – right into our living room.
As we listened, the newscaster detailed a country that sounded like a bad zombie movie, riots in most towns and cities, soldiers now deployed, armed police, dozens of looters shot dead. I could see Sophie’s concern, and I was tempted to turn the news off, but I also very much wanted to know what was going on out there.
France had seen large-scale riots in many cities, and Greece seemed to have been vacated by all - other than those wanting to set fire to shops and offices. Greece was put off-limits to all UK citizens, London now home to three hundred thousand Greek refugees. Listening to what was happening in London, I bet they now wished they were back home.
Italy was falling apart, Spain was seeing mass protests followed by mass riots, Lisbon in Portugal was on fire, and tales were being told of UK citizens getting stuck abroad.
Sophie called Wendy, stepping out of the room. When she returned, she informed us that Wendy was still on the island of Jersey, and that she might stay there till things were better.
‘Best place for her,’ I told the kids. ‘Plenty of farmland and fishing. She’ll be fine.’
‘And our house?’ Ben asked me directly, meaning our old family home. ‘No bugger there to protect it.’
‘It’s well away from the city, quiet area,’ I assured him. ‘And we have good neighbours. I’m sure they’d ring if there was a problem.’
‘And then what?’ Ben pressed.
‘Then …’ I hesitated. ‘Sorry, Ben, but I’m not driving there. I may not make it, and I may not make it back. I could load up fuel and food, but…’
‘I’m not driving across the country,’ Sophie insisted. ‘And I don’t want to be back in London till this is sorted.’
‘And you, Ben?’ I nudged.
‘This is the best place in the country right now. Food, fuel, wind turbine, water wheel, fishing, chickens, rabbits – and guns. Could last out here forever.’
‘Well,’ I proudly began. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘I’m amazed you’ve done all this,’ Sophie told me. ‘And really proud.’
‘I can’t claim all of the credit, Aunt Betty helped, so did Robby, even my old firm helped along the way. I’ll tell you a true story: when I realised that I wouldn’t be able to get planning permission for this place, it was Robby that gave me the idea of green energy – to attract people that might want to be isolated and off-grid. I had absolutely no intention of retiring down here, or going off-grid. This -’ I lifted my hands. ‘- was thrust upon me by the ghost of Aunt Betty – god rest her soul.’
Storm raging, we claimed our beds knowing that only a mad man would venture out in this weather. Such thoughts did not bode well, since I figured that the area harboured a mad man or two. I made a point of closing my door this time, rabbit and puppies denied a room to play in, and with the light out I stared through the window, unable to see a damn thing on the beach side.
Peering through my window facing the sea, the bulb that Ben had set up was glowing brightly, so brightly I had images of large ships running aground on our beach. The storm had brought the rain, and the water wheel was going around as if driven by a demented hamster.
Knocking off the room light, Ben’s bulb now lit my curtains, and it wobbled on its pole in the gale, fingers of light dancing across my ceiling as if I had erected a typically 1976 glitter ball. For a moment it took me back, then just got real damned annoying.
I heard Ben get up, utter a curse on the stairs, and return after the light had gone out. He had pulled the plug, and ships would not now mistake us for a local lighthouse and beach themselves.
My windows whistled, and I made a note to do something about that soon, some Polyfilla and a little tape, paint in the cracks. I managed to doze off, but I remember waking a few times, the storm raging.
Driftwood
Dawn offered broken clouds and a stiff breeze, and a pile of wood on the beach, not to mention a boat that had again beached itself. It even looked like the previously beached boat. Peering down from my window on the beach side, I could see a log completely blocking the coastal path, a huge thing, but a pale log that appeared as if it had been sanded down to a smooth finish.
Dressed and down, wrapped up warm, I ventured out, and I stood puzzling the scene before me. It looked like half the damn Amazon rain forest had been washed up on my beach. And as I advanced down the beach I found hundreds of wooden planks of a uniform length. It was as if a cargo ship had sunk, shedding its load of Scandinavian timber.
Stepping over and around the logs and timber, I discovered a large foam life belt, the kind that a tourist might find hanging on Salcombe sea front. It was an amazing display of flotsam, but also disheartening; it would take a week to clean the damn beach up.
Reaching the boat I peeked inside, sure it was the same one. At the rear I checked its name, and it damn well was, leaving me stood shaking my head. Back at the house I found Robby in his oilskins.
‘I doubt that there’ll be many tracks for you to follow, Great White Hunter, not after that storm.’
‘No, but plenty of wood.’
‘Yes, and I intend keeping it, cutting it up and storing it – at least some of it. Those wooden planks, will they dry out?’
‘Aye.’
‘Then we’ll collect them and keep them, they could be used for shelving.’
Making Robby tea, Max slid down the stairs and righted himself, joining us, so I fed the early riser. An omelette was soon forming in the pan, a large omelette of seven eggs, toast popping up. Robby tucked in, salt and ketchup liberally applied to his omelette on toast.
Ben appeared, dressed warm, but his eyes were half closed. Issuing a huge yawn, he said, ‘Seen all that stuff outside?’
‘Yes, we’ll be collecting wood after breakfast, much is salvageable,’ I told him.
‘In that storm, the body would have washed up on the bloody Kingsbridge High Street,’ Ben suggested as he poured hot water on a tea bag.
I had forgotten all about the body. ‘Yes, I suppose.’
‘That guy will be back in his office this morning,’ Ben quipped.
‘Ben, he was upset at his son’s passing, and took his own life; not the subject of mockery.’
I got back a shoulder shrug.
My son’s ability to joke about these things was a source of amazement for me, and his coping with the problems that our country now faced both pleased me – and worried me in equal measures. He was coping better than I was, and seemed to accept each new turn of the screw as it came, and adjust accordingly.
After breakfast, Sophie and the rabbit now with us, Ben tried taking on Robby at arm wrestling, a lost cause from the start. Even using two hands he was not making any progress. I joined in, pulling Robby’s arm, soon using both of my hands, and even Sophie pushed. With Ben giving up, Robby was gently cursed from all sides, but stood with a grin.
‘You has some growing-up to do, young’un,’ he told Ben.
‘I’ll hit you with shovel,’ Ben warned.
‘Ben, that could damage a perfectly good shovel,’ I told him. ‘Use a bit of four-by-two like everyone else.
After a cup of tea, a large breakfast followed by a slow mug of coffee, my son finally joined us, soon carrying an arm full of damp timber. Sophie joined in, and the once vast cellar was now looking a bit tight in places. Many of the wooden planks were stood up against walls or placed on sacks, the hope being that the wood would dry out.
After a lunch break, the wind easing a little, we again ventured out as a family unit, the remainder of the timber collected. Next came obstacles, and we worked as a team to drag the huge log from the coastal path, a second log left parallel to the coast so that it did not block access along the path.
Stopping for a breather, I considered the boat, but then immediately considered that this would be the first place the owner would look for it. And I would say that I had called the police, a little white lie. For now, I held off reporting the beaching.
I grabbed a saw, Robby copying, and we began cutting the smaller limbs off the logs, stacking them at the back of the beach and not too far from the diesel tanker. Lengths around six feet long were thrown onto the pile, Ben busying himself with building a monster of a bonfire. Sophie collected the life belt, and hung it up on the house wall, a spot where a hanging basket must have once rested. It was a nice touch.
By the end of the day I was knackered, and there was still the mountain of sand in front of the house. Seeing the beach slowly clearing of driftwood, I wondered about the boat, then worried about it, since the next high tide might just smash it on the rocks. I heaved a big breath, and called the police.
‘Police?’
‘Sorry to trouble you, but a small boat has washed up on my private beach -’
‘We’re taking emergency calls only, sir. Thank you.’ And she hung up.
I was surprised, then not so surprised, as I considered that they might have their hands full, very full.
Before we lost the light I ventured down to the boat with Ben. We grabbed its anchor and chain, stretched it out and shoved the anchor into the sand, a heavy log placed on top. It was now very unlikely that any tide would move the boat, and the owner could collect it when he wished. But this time I would not be assisting him push the damn thing through the mud.
The wind continued to howl, and I spent half an hour working on my bedroom’s window frames, Polyfilla, paint and sticky tape applied, the finished product tested with an ear to the glass. And Ben, he had used a broken plastic plant pot to create a shade for he bulb outside the house, its light now angled away from our bedroom windows. Switch flicked, the bulb came to life, assisting anyone who might venture along the coastal path - having first negotiated the pig shit and barbed wire, plus the new assault course of beached logs.
The wind had eased by dawn, little in the way of whistling keeping me awake during the night, and after breakfast I grabbed a spade. Mine was not a difficult task: shovel up sand from against the front garden wall, turn and dump it a few feet away, as the coastal path sloped away to the mud. It was just that there appeared to be a hundred tonnes of it.
Robby joined in, Ben assisting after he had made his bonfire even larger, and Sophie brought us drinks. By the end of the day the path was mostly clear, the logs pushed onto the mud or stacked up, more of the flotsam cleared from the beach. And by the end of the day I was again exhausted. Still, I had a hell of an appetite, and potatoes and beans with scrambled eggs went down well, Sophie having kindly sat in the kitchen and peeled potatoes – not quite the best use of a budding doctor and a straight-A student.
The next day brought us a clear sky and little wind, and layers of clothing were duly peeled off. Ben busied himself sorting wood on the beach, Robby and myself erecting fencing between the top fields and the slope, since we could not see the top fields from the house, nor hope to spot anyone clambering over our fence if it surrounded those fields.
And it wasn’t much of a fence anyway, more of a deterrent than anything, at least this section we were installing. It stood little more than six feet high, and could be pulled down easily enough. Still, it labelled the inside of the fence as private property.
On Robby’s suggestion we moved to the woods, lugging each heavy fencing reel on the wheelbarrow. Above Robby’s cottage the road was skirted by a low stone wall, a wall that might only stop an inquisitive three-year-old from clambering over. Back from the wall, and into the woods, we laid wire fencing between trees, nailing the fence to the trees themselves, and now we benefited from a section of fence that would not be easily pulled down.
Four reels later, and much sweating and puffing, a section of fence a hundred yards long had been erected. Anyone wanting to approach from that side would have been deterred, and would walk either down to the coastal path – with its pig shit and barbed wire, or around to the make-do gate.
With Robby being persistent, we grabbed a reel of barbed wire and pushed the wheelbarrow up the access road and into the woods. Cutting sections of wire, we stretched them out between the trees, at a height of around seven feet, simply winding the wire around the trees, a few nails used. We now had a section of fence that would prove difficult to penetrate, but with gaps at the sides.
But the benefit was one of elimination; we knew we’d not have to worry about anyone sneaking about and approaching through the woods. At the base of the woods we utilised a National Trust sign, nailing barbed wire to it before stretching the wire to a tree. That exercise pointed towards the obvious weakness in our position, in that someone could simply walk around the fence by negotiating the sand and mud. Security, it seemed, would be based on the tide being in.
The last reel of barbed wire was used at a spot across the road from the Robby’s cottage; two gates to the top fields were well and truly barbed-up, forcing visitors over a five foot stone wall. Fortunately, the walls top consisted of flat stones angled upwards, and the stones slipped and fell when you put any weight on them. If nothing else, we’d injure the casual visitor.
Ben helped out with further reels of fencing, and later I peered from the toilet window, now seeing a line of green fencing stretching from the access road – down towards the diesel tanker. A gate sat in the middle, and it would be easy to scale. Still, I felt better, not in that we could prevent someone entering, but that we could stand on our side of the fence and shout at people the other side, shotguns and air rifles being brandished.
Sophie had spent much of the day in the greenhouse with the bedding plants, she had even seeded a dozen long plant trays for me, a patch of land raked and then dug with a hoe, carrots planted. At the evening meal she detailed to us what she had done, and what she would do the next day, my straight-A daughter applying her vast brain power to tiny seeds, their preferred soil conditions, and to their nutritional needs.
End of innocence
A shout from Sophie the next lunchtime, and I was worried, soon rushing out of the kitchen and up the slope. There, on the other side of the green fence, was a man, his fingers through the fence as he gripped it.
