The Turnarounders and the Arbuckle Rescue (56 page)

Irritation got Ralf through the next stroke but it was stubbornness that made him do the one last stroke, which got him to
the boat. After everything he’d been through tonight, if he were going to die it would be from trying, not from giving up. Out of nowhere, a boathook appeared, suspended in mid-air. Ralf looked up to see King hanging over the side of
The Sea-Hawke
with a half-smile on his face. Ralf grabbed hold and King pulled him aboard.

Fifteen minutes later, Ralf was sprawled next to an unconscious Tank, puking up water. He didn’t think the boy would mind. In fact, he doubted whether George Tatchell would be in any condition to notice anything for quite some time. When he’d had finished emptying his stomach he dragged himself over to King.

‘Thanks,’ he gasped.

But King shook his head. ‘Don’t mention it.’

Ralf wanted to say more but the conversation was cut short by a commotion from the harbour wall.

‘No, no, no!’ a curt, impatient voice snapped. ‘You shouldn’t be here
now!
’

‘Ambrose!’ Valen called joyfully.

Old Father Time waved a greeting from the harbour wall but was too busy to reply. His hourglass turned, his scythe sliced into the air – a small neat cut of blue-white light – the sabre-toothed tiger raised its head from its impromptu lunch then winked out of existence. The horsemen were next. They milled and whirled in circles on the cobbles for a moment then they too were gone.

A minute later Ambrose was on the water. From the prow of
The Sara Luz
, the Turnarounders could just make out his rowing boat dwarfed by
The Titanic’s
vast hull. Time turned his hourglass once again. The liner shivered, became translucent and then with a short, low hum, disappeared altogether.

Hunched and using his scythe to lean on, Ambrose stood. His boat rocked dangerously but his eyes met Ralf’s across the water.

‘Can’t stop!’ he called nodding to the numerous Falls that still hung in the air around the harbour. ‘I think I’m going to be busy for quite a while!’ He raised his fist in the circling gesture the Hidden Warrior had used just a few short hours previously, nodded his thanks and blinked away. Reflexively, Ralf mirrored the gesture to the empty space Ambrose had occupied a split second before.

Ron came forward then, drenched and shaking he looked from one Turnarounder to another. ‘Are you kids alright?’ he asked. They nodded warily. What should they say? How could they possibly explain all that had happened?

‘I don’t know how you did the things you did tonight and I don’t think I want to. You’re lucky to be alive!’ If the words were harsh, the tone wasn’t and Ron ruffled Leo’s damp hair even as he admonished them. ‘Ruddy little idiots!’ he said.

‘Leave ‘em be, Ron,’ Old Bill called from
The Fisher King
. ‘There be things that are and that’s that.’

‘True enough, Dad,’ said Ron, with a weary sh
ake of his head. ‘True enough.’

Tom emerged from the cabin then, his head freshly bandaged.
‘All set? ’ he asked.

Ron
signalled his brother to prepare to leave ‘We’ll drop these men at
The Mona's Isle
, then and go back for another load.’

‘Let’s get busy then,’ said Leo, grinning.

‘Hie, Jock! How’s it coming with that engine!’ Ron called down the hatchway.

The Black Watch p
rivate shouted back. ‘I don’t know what the problem was but she’s all right now, Captain!’ The engine spluttered into life.

‘Full speed ahead then, Scotty!’ Seth yelled. He gave Ralf an impish look then admitted: ‘I’ve always wanted to say that!’

Each of the remaining King’s Hadow boats made six more trips that night, until
The Mona's Isle
was full to capacity. At dawn, she steamed away carrying one thousand, four hundred and twenty men. The King’s Hadow boats each took on board one more load before full light when Luftwaffe raids began again.

Major Swift ordered his men from the mole to the comparative safety of the wharf and said goodbye.

‘What about you, sir?’ Valen asked. ‘Your head needs seeing to.’

Swift shook his head. ‘Not quite yet, I think.’ He gave a weary salute to the men aboard
The Sara Luz
and stood, alone, at the end of the mole. ‘Godspeed!’

As the bright morning sun cleared the French coast
The Sara Luz
hit open water. They chugged past the beaches, which they’d first seen only a few hours before and saw in daylight the true scale of the problem. The dunes above the beaches were crawling with men, equipment and vehicles of every kind and here and there were even groups of horses, skittish and nervous in the salty breeze. Further down on the beach were more soldiers, thousands of them, turning the white sand khaki-black. Men queued four or five abreast from the promenade to the water’s edge. Men waded into the sea and stood, as statues, water lapping at their shoulders, their rifles held above their heads.

The Sara Luz
sailed on, its passengers staring in mute awe. At the bow, Val’s raven hair whipped in the wind and silent tears streamed down her face. It was the first and last time, that Ralf would ever see her cry.

The four remaining King’s Hadow fishing boats huddled together in the vast expanse of blue. Mid-channel, Leo thought to break out the food. They passed round more of Urk’s apples and the soldiers shared the remains of their rations.

Quiet conversations started. King and Gloria discussed the sweetness of the apples. Charles Hart, looking older and rather less debonair than in his film posters, was sitting up, wrapped in a blanket in the stern. Ron had handed him a hip flask, from which he gratefully drank. Seth, with colour in his cheeks for the first time in months, leaned over the side rail, eyes half closed, listening to the actor’s vivid recount of his time in captivity

‘Got any tea mate?’ a whiskery Cold Stream Guard asked
, hopefully.

‘Val?’ King said.

She beamed that brilliant smile of hers. ‘Please, Julian. Two sugars in mine!’

Ralf had to laugh.

An hour later they saw shapes on the horizon and all talk ceased. The boats instinctively drew closer together and they watched the approach of something they would remember for the rest of their lives.

Destroyers loomed at them. There was the
HMS Jaguar
,
The Sabre
,
The Malcolm
and
The Wakeful
as well as two French destroyers, three minesweepers and a number of Army Landing Craft. All were powering towards France to begin the evacuation of the desperate troops stranded there. Huge and implacable, they towered over the King’s Hadow boats, sending them rocking in wash. Behind them – behind them was a sight that lumped their throats and blurred their eyes.

Here there were boats – hundreds of them. There were passenger ferries, car ferries, day trippers, fishing boats, tug boats, lifeboats, cabin cruisers, trawlers, motor launches and dredgers. There was the Isle of Wight ferry and a pleasure boat,
The Brighton Belle
– a multitude of boats of different shapes and sizes, new and old – even the Admiral Superintendent’s barge from Portsmouth, still with its gold tassels and fancy red trim.

Ralf’s skin prickled. He called to Seth and pointed. As the vessels drew nearer they saw clearly that they were being sailed by civilians, ordinary people in ordinary clothes, some still wearing smart jackets and trilby hats. The call had gone out and the people had answered. Here were little ships sailed by the little people, proud to do their duty.

It was King who started the clapping. But he was only alone for a heartbeat. The applause swelled until it was taken up by every living soul on the King’s Hadow fleet. Hats were removed and cheers rang out across the water as the returning heroes clamoured their approval of the departing ones. Their shouts echoed like drums across the waves.

The King’s Hadow to which they returned was a very different place from the one they had left. It was nearly noon when they got back and it seemed that the entire village was waiting on the harbour. Bunting had been strung from the cottages on the front and there were ‘Welcome home!’ banners fluttering in the breeze. The women, presided over by Rosie Kemp had set up tables groaning with food and Arthur Kemp was monitoring the progress of a whole pig, roasting over an open fire at the bottom of the High Street.

He waved when he saw Ralf and the others pushing their way through the crowd to come ashore. ‘Brindle’s sow!’ he winked, as they joined him. ‘She can’t take it where she’s going and these brave souls deserve it more than she anyway!’

‘She’s been arrested, then?’ Leo asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Kemp. ‘Oyler Munton and three fellas down Hasting’s way an’ all.’ He nodded down towards the seafront to where Gadd Munton was being escorted off
The Sara Luz
by Ron and Tom Arbuckle. Burrowes waited for him on the road. The back door of his Wolsely was open and Sergeant Minter, stony-faced, was brandishing a set of handcuffs. ‘And he’ll be joining them,’ he sighed.

‘You’re alright, though, Mr Kemp?’ Valen asked.

‘Thanks to you lot!’ He slapped each of the boys on the back and then bent to kiss Valen’s grazed and grubby hand, making her blush furiously. ‘Got the Bakery to rebuild o’ course,’ Kemp said. ‘But I been wanting new ovens for years.’ He gave Val a gentle push and added, ‘We’ll be living in one of the Manor cottages until it’s done. There’s plenty of room and what with Lloyd Hatcher being in the hospital Val, maybe you could come and live with us for a while?’

There was a commotion on the harbour then and all activities stopped as Cabal let out a piercing greeting of doggy joy. Hettie, in a clean summer dress and looking two hundred per
cent better than when they’d last seen her, called and waved to them. Laughing, she struggled to hold on to Cabal for a second but lost her balance and sat down heavily on the grass verge as the dog bounded across the road then wove in and out of tables and people to reach his master. Predictably, Ralf was knocked off his feet by Cabal’s enthusiasm.

‘You really should teach him not to do that,’ said Valen.

Ralf grinned and hugged his dog, not caring one little bit, whilst Valen and the others scratched Cabal. Hettie, blushing prettily, was helped to her feet by a wiry East York’s private.

Just then, the Sedley
s, already reunited with Walter, spotted Alfie in the crowd and Old Jack gave a whoop of delight. The couple rushed forward to embrace the boy, alternately squeezing him, praising his bravery and telling him off for going in the first place.

‘If I hadn’t spotted that
tam o' shanter we’d have missed you,’ chuckled Mr Sedley.

‘Ridiculous thing!’ Mrs Sedley exclaimed. ‘And it needs a good wash!’ She crushed Alfie in anot
her hug and wept openly as she licked her handkerchief and used it to wipe soot from his Cheshire-cat face. Ralf wouldn’t have been surprised to hear him purr.

‘Come and get something to eat, loves,’ Mrs Sedley suggested eventually, dabbing her own eyes. ‘I bet you’re all w
ell starved
.’ She gave them an impish smile when she saw their surprise. ‘That is what you youngsters say,
innit
?’

‘Totally, Mrs S,’ Alfie grinned as the others roared. ‘I could eat a horse and chase the jockey!’

The Sedleys guided them through crowds of soldiers to the food tables where Hilda was supervising a bubbling urn. Ralf’s sister nearly smothered him with her hug when she saw his newly bruised face, broken nails and the dried blood that splotched his clothing. She took a deep, shuddering breath then handed him a sandwich and a steaming mug of tea. ‘Get that inside you,’ she said, wiping tears from her eyes. ‘Now get out from under my feet while I see to these men.’ She managed a smile for the next soldier as she put an extra spoon of sugar in his tea, fighting to keep a glimmer of hope alive. Maybe in another harbour along the coast somewhere, a woman like her would be doing the same for Niall.

The party lasted all afternoon. Ralf wasn’t sure whether the best part was the knowledge they’d defeated Scathferox, the fact that the Natus were all alive and well or the huge amounts of chocolate ration that the rescued soldiers were dishing out. Alfie, already stuffed with pork and several helpings of rice pudding, was tucking into his third bar and actually groaning with pleasure. Villagers kept walking past and ruffling their hair or pressing plates of food into their hands and Ralf’s back was starting to get sore from all the pats of admiration he’d had. Eventually, literally unable to eat or drink anymore, the Turnarounders wandered away from the tables to take in the rest of the celebrations.

They stopped outside The Crown, which was packed to the rafters with people singing, dancing and generally having a grand old time. The band was playing and Frank Duke had broken the habit of a lifetime and was serving beer on the house. It was a little early, and not strictly legal, but no one seemed to mind.

They peaked through the doorway to see fishermen, Mr Cheeseman and, astonishingly, a whole group of masters from St. Crispin’s School. Ralf stood open mouthed as Asinus sang an excruciating version of ‘There’ll be bluebirds over the White Cliffs of Dover’ and Frank Duke plied a red-faced Weedy Green with beer.