Stormswept. Helen Dunmore

tolling out one slow stroke, and then another, as they do for a funeral. It’s a signal. The wind lifts the sound, carries it towards me and then snatches it away. I know exactly what it means. At times like these the church bells have their own language, and everyone understands it. The lost man has been found, but he is dead. If they’d found him alive, all the bells would have pealed out a clangour like wedding bells. This single bell-note is telling us it’s time to give up, and come home.

      Such a slow, heavy sound. The sea glitters as the sun comes out more strongly, and a gull dives down, screeching. They used to say gulls were soul-birds, and carried the souls of drowned sailors. No one believes that now, but I wish it were true as I watch the gull ride the waves of the air.

      Five men were saved, I remind myself. The lifeboat did everything it could.

      I ought to go back home, but I don’t want to. Everybody will be talking about where the man’s body was found.

      I wander slowly along the strand, still watching the gull which has now soared high into the air. It heads out to sea and soon it is out of sight. Maybe you’ve gone back to Poland, I think, but I can’t really believe it. The bell is still tolling.

      The rocks ahead of me are covered with mussels. Maybe I’ll pick some. Tide’s way out now. The Pascoe boys will be able to get round to the caves at the base of Golant cliffs. Then I remember that there’s no need for them to do that any more.

      Anyway, it was a stupid idea to pick mussels, because I’ve nothing to carry them in. Mum usually has an “in case” bag in her coat pocket. I dig my hands into my waterproof pockets, and to my amazement I pull out a Sainsbury’s bag. Where did that come from? I remember that it’s from when Jen and I bought Cokes and crisps in Marazance. I must have stuffed it in my pocket afterwards. Obviously I am meant to pick mussels.

      I’m walking towards the rocks when I hear it. Not the bell, but something much closer. A sound like a groan, quickly smothered. I stop, and stare all around. Nothing. Empty sand and empty sea. But I’m sure I heard it. I wait, dead still. Seconds tick past, with the wind soughing in my ears, and the sand sifting underfoot. Nothing. I’m about to walk on when it comes again. The kind of sound you make when you’re in too much pain to keep quiet, but you choke it back as soon as you can, because you’re frightened of people hearing. But who would be frightened of me?

      “Who’s there?” I call. No one answers. My mind races. Maybe there was another crewman, and in the confusion of the wreck he was forgotten. Or else, maybe the rescued crewmen gave the number of crew wrong. They barely speak English. What if there’s another man, an injured survivor lying somewhere close, maybe unconscious? You can still groan when you’re unconscious, I think. I’ve got to find him.

      “Where are you?” I call. “Don’t be frightened. I want to help you.”

      Even if he doesn’t understand English, surely he’ll realise that my voice is friendly.

      “Call out again if you can. I’ll find you.”

      Nothing. I don’t know what’s best to do. Should I run back to the village and fetch help? No, it’ll waste time. If he’s been lying out all night he’ll be suffering from exposure even if he isn’t injured. If I find him I can wrap him up in my hoodie and waterproof and then go for help. It’s a miracle he’s still alive.

      “I’m coming!” I call again. “Don’t be frightened!”

      I run forward until I reach the rocks. I don’t think the groan came from here but the best way is to search backwards methodically, from the tide-line to the dunes. The sand here isn’t clean and shining. It’s covered in bits of wood, seaweed, twine, a dead mackerel and a tangle of weed and crab legs. The flotsam and jetsam spreads all the way up the beach here, and right over the dunes which are anchored with tough marram grass. The sea’s come up much higher than normal. Maybe the storm produced freak waves.

      Suddenly the skin on the back of my neck prickles. I have an overwhelming feeling that I am not alone. Someone is watching me. I turn quickly, but the beach and the dunes are empty. I turn back to the rocks, and scan along them. Nothing. But my back still prickles. Very slowly and casually, I bend forward and kneel down as if I’ve spotted something in the sand. I’ve plaited my hair because of the wind, and the plait falls forward. Cautiously, I peep round. Even if someone’s watching, they won’t notice because my thick plait hides my face. I shuffle round a little way on my knees, and pretend to be digging. Whoever is watching will be off-guard by now. They will think I’m concentrating all my attention on what is in front of me. I am quite sure now that there is someone there. My heart is thudding. I want to leap to my feet and race for home, but I can’t. If there’s an injured man lying there, then he must be even more frightened than I am. That’s why he’s hiding. Maybe he’s had a bang on the head when the ship went on the reef, and he thinks he’s in an enemy country or something. Me shouting out in a foreign language won’t help.

      I turn my head a fraction, still looking down. I shake my plait right forward so there’s a gap between it and my shoulder, and, very stealthily, I steal a glance behind me.

      Yes. A movement. A tiny flicker of movement behind the dunes. Maybe a hand, or the side of a face. There is someone there and whoever it is must be very scared. He knows I’m here and he’s in pain or he wouldn’t have groaned like that. But he won’t call back to me. That means he is much more afraid than I am.

      I think for a moment, and then very slowly I get up and brush the sand off my hands and the knees of my jeans. I take the plastic bag out of my pocket and pretend to put something in it. I slip the bag into my pocket, shield my eyes and stare straight ahead, towards the rocks. After a while I shrug my shoulders, as if I’ve given up looking. Maybe I don’t believe I heard anything. It must have been my imagination. I hope that my body language is saying these things to the watcher behind the dunes. With luck he’ll relax, reassured, and sink back into his hiding-place.

      I take a careful note of where the movement was, and how far down the beach I need to walk to be parallel to it. I stroll casually along the sand, stopping once or twice to pick up a tiny shell, and put it into my pocket. All I am is a girl out for a walk on the shore.

      I am parallel to the spot in the dunes now. I slide my gaze sideways for a second. No sign of life. I walk forward a little more. He won’t be able to see me now, because the bulk of the dune will hide me from him just as it hides him from me.

      Suddenly, I change direction. My feet make no sound in the soft sand as I run to the dunes, scramble up the sifting slope, and over the top.

      he first thing I see is an arm drawn back, a fist, and a stone in the fist, ready to throw. I see dark, glittering eyes and a tangle of hair like seaweed. I hold my own hands out, palm up.

      “I won’t hurt you,” I say, and drop to my knees, keeping a distance. Surely he’ll see that I am not a threat.

      Slowly, slowly, the hand gripping the stone relaxes. Even more slowly, he lowers his arm.

      “Who are you?” I ask, keeping my voice soft and level, but then I remember that he probably doesn’t speak any English. His shirt and jacket must have been torn off in the struggle with the sea. He’s half-buried in sand, but I can see his bare arms and shoulders, in fact most of his body down to his waist. He is surrounded by flotsam and jetsam. Suddenly I realise what must have happened. There was a freak wave. It must have lifted him, hurled him over the beach and the dune, and half-buried him in the sand. He’ll be freezing cold. It’s amazing that he hasn’t died of hypothermia.

      “It’s all right,” I say again, “I’m a friend. I want to help you.” Then I have an idea. I point to myself and say, “Mor-ver-en,” very slowly. Gradually, so as not to alarm him, I shuffle forward. His eyes stay fixed on my face. He doesn’t seem to blink. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such glittering eyes. His skin is a strange colour: it’s brown,