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Great Writing - Home > Extended > The Great Cley Floods - Chapter 2
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Extended Work
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| The Great Cley Floods - Chapter 2 | |
| By jean.day | ||||
| 11 November 2006 | ||||
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January 31st, 1953 Mary Gardner was worried about the weather. It was so cold and stormy, and the wind was blowing much harder than usual. She was finding it hard to settle down with her sewing. Martin, her husband was back from his work as an English master at Gresham School in Holt. He said the five mile bike ride home was very hard work and he was exhausted. After their early supper, he settled down at the table and was marking the English essays from his students – which was always quite hard work as they weren’t as talented as he might have hoped. He himself was very clever with words, and Mary knew that he had been offered a job as an actor, shortly after he had returned from the war. His father had insisted that he turn it down, and get a proper education and a proper job, so Martin had obeyed. But the thespian in him found its way out when he was teaching the children, and also by directing the school plays. Mary helped out however she could, and made costumes and scenery for the plays. She really felt the effort was worthwhile when she got them out of their stiff uniforms and into costumes such as those they wore for their last production, Toad of Toad Hall. She remembered how amusing the Day boys were in the play – and of course she and Martin always enjoys the company of Jan Day, the chemistry master at Gresham, while his wife Betty, quite a powerful figure in her own right but with a good heart, helps run Kenwyn schoolhouse with Jan, planning the meals and managing the housekeeping. Martin and Mary’s children, Alice, 5 and John, 3, didn’t worry about the weather much, and enjoyed playing down on the beach, collecting stones and chasing the waves, despite the chilly wind and rain. Now they were safely tucked up in the top bedroom, sound asleep. But Mary was restless, and felt the urge to take a walk up the loke near their house to see how the night was progressing. It was of course pitch dark outside. Cley didn’t have street lighting. Martin and Mary were renting a house on High Street, more or less directly across from the Whalebone House – which was also the post office. Just next to the Whalebone House was a path that led to Fairstead – parallel to the coast road through the village, but higher up. Mary wasn’t afraid of the dark, and told Martin she was just going out for a quick walk, as she couldn’t settle, and he wasn’t in the least worried about her, as she often went for lone walks. Mary noticed as she started that water was coming down the road, no doubt the tide had breached the shingle bank, as it often did in winter at high tide. She would have to remember to get the flood boards out when she got back which they placed behind the front door to make it water tight – packing it in with mud. She had never experienced a Cley flood, but from hearing her neighbours’ talk, she had taken the precautions that they had recommended and had a “flood kit” ready near the front of the house. Mary was not a local girl, any more than Martin was a local lad. They had met at Cambridge University, which Martin had started attending just before the war began in 1939, and they had become sweethearts before he went off to war. And what a war he had had. He had been a pilot, and twice had ditched his plane into the sea – being rescued by comrades on the first occasion, but not so lucky on the second. He was captured by the Germans and spent the rest of the war in Stalag Luft 3, but not as one of those who tried to make The Great Escape. In fact, he almost felt guilty in how much he enjoyed the war in his prisoner of war camp. The prisoners were for the most part well treated, and it was there that he became so interested in the theatre. He and his fellow officers put on regular performances of plays, a new one each week – making the costumes and sets themselves. The Germans provided the English scripts for them, and were helpful in other ways – taking photographs of the plays, providing musical instruments. At the close of the war, Martin had been sent a copy of a book about the prisoner part of the war, in which he in his skirts (he was usually the female lead) featured highly. Mary’s family came from Axbridge in Somerset, and she had continued with her University course during the war, and on finishing, she and Martin had again got together. They married after he graduated, and this was his first real job. However, Martin felt that he was not likely to spend his life teaching and was sending out feelers about going to work for the BBC. Martin and Mary had now lived in Cley for four months – having for their first year rented a house in Holt. But the sea was always a delight for them both, and the chance to live near it was something they couldn’t resist. They loved swimming, walking the marshes, digging up cockles and winkles, picking the seaweed samphire and not only eating it for the months that it was fresh, but all year long, as Mary pickled as much as she could. Cley is on the coast road and between it and Holt, are the other seaside villages of Weybourne and Salthouse, but the quickest way for Martin to get to work was on the roads over the back of Cley. The Cley beach was mostly large stones – with a little bit of sand showing at low tide. The stones which are great flints, are used in house building in this part of Norfolk, and most of the bigger and richer houses have a flint facing. The house Mary and Martin were now in now, was in the middle of a row – and had unadorned brickwork at the front. From the large front room with an open fireplace, there was only a small tacked on kitchen at the rear, where Mary was pleased to say they had a Rayburn which not only cooked for them, but kept the house hot and heated their water as well. They had an outside toilet. Upstairs there were 2 large bedrooms, leading directly from the top of the stairwell, and the third small bedroom was off the largest of these. Mary was again pregnant, so she knew the third bedroom would soon have a use of its own. Outside they had a small garden with one huge sycamore tree, but Mary, who loved gardening intended, come spring, to make use of every available space for her flowers and vegetables. Mary had to fight against the wind to move at all, although while she was in the loke, she was somewhat protected from the force of the gale. But when she reached Fairstead and had started to walk towards the church end of town, she was almost blown off her feet, and as she struggled along, a branch which had minutes before been attached to a huge oak tree, came hurling towards her, and she didn’t see it until just before it struck her and knocked her to the ground. It was some moments before Mary opened her eyes again, and a woman she didn’t know was bending down to help her to her feet. Feeling totally disorientated, she looked around, and what she saw absolutely amazed her. The sea was covering the land between Cley and the adjoining seaside village, Blakeney, and as far back as the next inland village, Wiveton. And there were boats on the water – not little fishing boats or yachts as they often saw at Blakeney, but huge sailing ships. The woman who had come to her rescue was dressed very strangely in a long full gown, covered with a black cape and she wore a warm bonnet and carried an umbrella which had been blown inside out. “What’s happening?” said Mary. “I fear you have been hit by a branch from yon tree,” said the woman, in a very odd accent. Mary had difficulty understanding the Norfolk accent at times, so different from her educated but decidedly West Country one, but this was different. It was an educated accent, but very odd sounding, as if the person were trying to sound like people did hundreds of years before. “I need to get back to my husband and babies,” said Mary, but as she looked down the hill towards her house, she saw that it would be impossible to get there now. The sea had filled in the entire street and had covered the houses including her own to above the windows. Mary started to go off down the loke, not knowing what she could do, but feeling she must get back to be with her family in this terrible flood, which had come upon them so swiftly. “Now the flood waters are up, there is no chance to get back down that road the night,” said the woman, “Best you come with me to my house, where you can get warmed by the fire and have a cup of tea.” So not willingly, but not knowing what else to do, Mary stumbled along in the woman’s path – back up the road and into Heron House. They went into the drawing room, which was lovely and warm. The room had a beautiful old fireplace, a window seat and French windows to the garden. The couch and chairs were elegant and surprisingly comfortable, as Mary soon found out. The walls were covered with huge oil paintings in decorated gold frames. A card table had been left set out with four chairs around it and packs of cards and scorers and pencils still in place. “Who are you?” she asked her rescuer when she had been settled with a rug over her shoulders, near the fire. “I know you are not the current owner of Heron House. I don’t know her by name, but I have seen her many times. I am afraid when I was hit, it must have taken my senses right away.” “I am Mrs. Rebecca Jackson and of course this is Heron House. I am a widow and my daughter Rachel lives here with me. She is a Governess at Runton Hill Girls’ School at West Runton, near Sheringham. Also living here, besides my servant Polly of course, are Mr, Hugh McGilway who is the comptroller of customs. The customs are due to move to Wells soon, as our port is sadly diminishing in usefulness with the silting up, but he is welcome to stay here as long as he likes. Mr. John Steward Dewar is also here with me as a visitor. He comes from Perthshire and is an artist. But I don’t know your name, child. I have not seen you in the village of late. Are you a visitor to Cley?” “No, I live here with my husband and children and we have been here since September. We live in Mallard House, down on High Street, across from the Post Office.” “Post Office? The Post Office is not on High Street.” “The building with the bones built into the wall.” “Ah, yes, that is just a general store. Why ever do you think it is a post office? “But it is. I go there to post my letters and buy stamps and there is a baker next door, and just down the road is the general store Commerce House, which used to be run by some people who I think were called Starlings but it is now the Starrs and they also sell groceries.” “The Starlings do not have a grocery in Cley, but they do have one in Blakeney. You must be confused.” “And then the garage is just down from us.” Mary went on and on trying to find some common ground with this woman who seemed to live in the same village and yet in a very different place to how she knew it. “Garage? What is that? I do not know what you mean?” “A place to get petrol and have your car mended. Do you not have a car? I would have thought with such a wealthy house as this obviously is, you would have one.” “I don’t know these words you are using – car, petrol, I do not know what you speak of.” “I wish I could let my husband know I am all right. Do you have a phone? But of course we don’t have a phone either but maybe we could telephone the George and have them pass a message on to him.” “What is this thing a phone? When the water recedes, we can send my servant out with a message for your man. But before that you must just sit and try to rest yourself. It will do you no good to get in a fuss over it, as I can see you are increasing.” “Increasing, oh, you mean I’m pregnant. Yes, I am. Nearly four months gone now and the baby is just starting to kick.” The woman looked embarrassed and not a little annoyed at Mary for revealing these very intimate details that one never discussed in public, especially with a stranger. But then she surprised herself by saying something she had hardly expressed out loud before, and certainly not to a stranger. “I do so wish I had a grandchild. But my daughter is not yet married and she is almost beyond her chance to make me a grandmother. So your baby will be born in June. That is a good time for a birth. You must bring the baby for me to see when he is old enough to be out.” “Well, of course, I will, if I can,” said Mary, still confused by who this woman was and what exactly was going on. The servant, whom the woman called Polly, brought in the tea, with a very beautiful porcelain tea service, and a tiered cake plate holding the remainder of the raisin scones and cream cakes left over from the whist party. Rebecca poured the tea, and handed a cup to Mary and told her to help herself to the food. Mary, who loved baking herself was very pleased to do so, and commented on how tasty everything was. “Do you not go to Mrs. Bessy Bastard’s bakery? (Such an unfortunate name she has.) It must be very close to you on the High Street. “No, I bake all my own cakes and bread.” “What strange clothing you are wearing,” said Mrs. Jackson. “I suppose it is what you call Bloomers. I have been reading about that wretched American woman in my Harpers Magazine, and these sorts of garments seem to be featured occasionally in parts of the United States. And I have seen them in cartoons in Punch. But I wouldn’t have thought to see them here in Cley.” “Bloomers? Of course, not. These are trousers – meant to be worn outside. Bloomers are worn underneath. Lots of women wear these now. They are very practical and comfortable.” “But not very attractive and certainly not feminine.” “Your long dress with its crinoline, as pretty as it is, cannot be very comfortable for you to wear, but then I expect that you do not do the sort of work in the house that I have to do. I need to do all the cleaning and cooking and we have an allotment off Church Road which I tend. And I have two young children who make such a lot of work. We go down to the sea cockling and winkling and picking samphire and looking for interesting stones, and it is much more pleasant for me to be wearing my trousers than it would to wear a long skirt such as you do.” “Well, whatever you say you do, I do not choose to do those things, and therefore do not need to wear your strange sort of garment. I can see by looking at your hands that you do much hard work. Such a shame. (Mary self-consciously hid her large blunt-fingered hands, with short bitten fingernails.) Annie Baines is my dressmaker. Her father Plusance is a draper. Perhaps you know of him. Anyway, tomorrow you can see her and get her to make a proper dress for you, if you are to be seen in my house.” She went on, “I must apologise for the state of my house. I had three friends around for whist this afternoon, and have not yet had time for Polly to tidy. Perhaps you know my friends: Mrs. Anna Marie Ramm, whose husband owns several ships, Miss Judith Fisher and Mrs. Hannah Lee, who are both living on their own, with servants of course. Anna Marie has three servants, but even so she doesn’t seem to know up from down – such a scatterbrain.” “You say Mrs. Ramm’s husband owns ships. Whereabouts does he sail from?” “From here, of course. Cley is a very prosperous harbour, although nothing like it was 100 years ago. His ships mainly sail to Rotterdam with grain, although we do send some salt as well from the workings here. Cley has about 115 registered vessels within this port, and another nearly 400 fishing boats, which as you probably know prefer to moor in Cley harbour as they are much more protected here than they would be in their own villages in the winter. We bring back coal. Capt. Ramm is currently in Amsterdam visiting his favourite places in the city. He seems to go there very often. I rather suspect he has a woman there but of course I wouldn’t breathe a word of it to Anna Marie. You mustn’t either.” “Of course not. I don’t even know who she is. Who else in the village do you know?” “Well, of course there is John Lee, the blacksmith, who was a cousin to Hannah’s husband. My friend Hannah is only 53 and has a daughter also called Hannah who is 22, and bone idle. Her mother waits on her hand and foot. Then there is Thomas Doyle the grocer and baker, and John Shaw the butcher. I am fond of the Elsy shop where they have a hairdresser and glover, and many more of course. There are 5 public houses, the Fishermongers Arms, the George and Dragon, the Mariner’s Arms which must be near where you say you live, the Kings Head and the Swallows.” “Oh, we know the George and the Swallows,” said Mary, “but not the others. In fact our house is very close by to the George but I have never heard of the Mariner’s Arms. Perhaps that is what Miss Starr’s shop was before it was a draper and grocer.” “John Waller runs the George and Dragon. He’s also an auctioneer, and his son John helps him with that. Their daughter Ihoma is a good friend of my daughter." “On no, that’s not right.” Not appreciating these interruptions, Mrs. Jackson continued, “The proprietor of the Mariner’s Inn, which I think must be across the road from you, is Mr. William Gibbs. And very near you, I should think, as I mentioned before is the baker, Mr. William Bastard (so unfortunate in his name). His wife is called Biddy, very common, and their have two sons John and Jabez (another dreadful name) and a daughter called Dorcas. Mary was beginning to find all this difference of opinion very confusing, but their disagreement was now interrupted by Polly who said that the bedroom that Mrs. Jackson had asked her to prepare for Mary was now ready. Mary knew she had no choice but to spend the night. Mrs. Jackson showed her to the room. It was huge, almost as big as all three of Mary’s bedrooms put together, and very richly furnished, with a four poster bed. By the bed was a dressing table with a pretty bowl and jug, hand painted with a poppy pattern, and filled with hot water. The wardrobe, chest of drawers and bedside table were all in mahogany, very ornate and heavy looking. There was an enormous fireplace, and Mrs. Jackson had asked for a fire to be lit, so that Mary would be warm and comfortable in the night. She had laid out a white lace trimmed silk nightdress of her own for Mary to put on. “I feel so silly asking you this, but do you know what the date is?” asked Mary. “Why it’s January 31st, if I recollect correctly. What an odd question to ask.” “No, I mean, what year is it?” “It’s 1853, of course. Did you think we had lost a year while you were knocked silly?” “No, I’m afraid it is 100 years I have lost, not one. You see, I live in 1953 – a hundred years later.” “What nonsense are you about now?” the woman looked amused, but also somewhat worried as if she was perhaps harbouring someone not quite right in the head. “I don’t know how it happened, or why it happened but somehow when I left my house it was 100 years later than you say it is now. I want to go back. I want to be with my family. I know you are very kind and I appreciate your offer of tea and a bed for the night, but I want to go to my own home in my own century.” And Mary started sobbing uncontrollably. “You will feel better after a night’s rest,” said Mrs. Jackson. And closing the door behind her, she certainly hoped that the new day would bring her new friend to her senses. But she couldn’t help but be pleased that her evening had ended in such a pleasant way. She had found a new friend, and somehow she felt that this woman would be connected with her in time to come. She smiled as she thought of the future visit from Mary with the new baby. Perhaps she will call her after me, she mused. Mary soon calmed, and then had an idea. She found a piece of paper in the desk in her room, and a quill pen, and made note of all the names that Mrs. Jackson had told her. She stuck it in her trouser pocket, and then taking off her outer clothing that had so offended Rebecca, she put on the beautiful nightgown, settled on a pile of plumped up pillows, pulled up the eiderdown and fell asleep almost at once.
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