“Trying to get the cat. Can you give us a hand, Frank?”
“I would,” he said. “But this cold’s got worse.”
She panted. Her dress, her arms, her legs, her face and hair were now all covered in sand. “Then go back to the hotel and keep warm.” Not for the first time she felt annoyed and let down by him.
But he just stood there, shivering and watching as they dug on. Soon the whole castle was down and there was no sign of the cat.
“Could it have escaped?” Cathy spoke to the boy who had first started digging. “Before the roof collapsed?”
“I don’t think so, miss. He might be in the cellar.”
“What?”
“We dug a cellar—underneath.”
Catherine wiped her hot forehead. Her arms and back were aching terribly. She summoned more strength and began to dig below the surface of the beach. She was quite surprised how strong she was, considering how much energy she had already expended.
By the time they had dug a hole some six feet deep, it had become difficult to work, for water kept dripping in and sand would fall back into the pit. Cathy looked for Frank but he had retreated. Her dress and hair were soaked and gritty. She must look a mess. Then she felt her spade strike something solid; something hollow. She sank down and gasped. “Phew!” She looked up. The children were all peering over the edge at her. “Phew!” she said, “I think I’ve reached some sort of old breakwater. That was a waste of energy, eh? That cat must have run out of one of the doors or windows. What a lot of excitement for nothing.” And then she heard a sound which was almost definitely a cat’s mew. It came from under her feet. She scraped sand away from what she had thought was a breakwater, revealing pale polished timber. “We’ve found a treasure,” she said with a grin. The children’s eyes widened. “Really and truly, miss?” said one.
“I’m not sure.” She dug away more wet sand and then felt a spasm of anxiety as she exposed the whole of the box’s surface, including the blank, brass plate. “You kids had better find your mums and dads,” she said. She ran her hand over the surface of the coffin, wondering how it could be so warm.
“Oh, miss! Please!”
She did her best to smile. “Go on,” she said. “I’ll let you know if it’s a treasure chest. Don’t worry.”
Miserably, reluctantly, they fell back from the edge of the pit.
Catherine wondered if the coffin were really an unexploded bomb. A booby trap? She’d heard of such things. And it was warm and there was a regular, slow ticking sound coming from inside it.
“Frank,” she called. “Mum?” But neither answered. A gull squawked. Or had the sound come from inside the box? She had the impression that the beach above was now deserted. She looked at the sides of the pit. “Oh, God!”
Water was seeping down. The sand under her feet had the consistency of a quagmire. She was sinking into it. “Frank? Mum?” Gulls replied. They were miles away. How had she got into this situation? It was ridiculous.
There was nothing for it, she decided, but to free the box completely. If it floated, she might be able to climb on it and drift to the surface as the pit filled. If not, she could put it on its side and perhaps climb up over it. She dug as fast as she could, but wet sand kept falling back into the holes. At last she was able to grab one of the brass handles and heave it, with a disgusting, sucking sound, upwards. Something heavy bumped about inside. The ticking stopped. A muffled screech replaced it. A bird? Could the cat have got inside somehow? She looked at the four bolts securing the lid and she had an idea. The Smith and Wesson .45 was still in her waistband. She took it out and screwed up her eyes, aiming for the first bolt. She pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the bolt and knocked it out. She aimed and fired three more times and by what seemed sheer luck managed to shoot all the bolts free.
She put the gun down and then, on second thoughts, picked it up again.
She pulled away the lid of the coffin.
A dreadful stink of brine and human excrement flooded from the box. She covered her mouth, staring at the creature she had revealed. Its eyes glowed, its lips curled back from its stained teeth, its fingers curved like claws as it wrenched at the bonds securing its wrists to the sides of the coffin. First one hand came free. Then the other. And Cathy, recognising her poor, mad brother, fainted.
* * *
“Cathy?”
She opened her eyes. She was lying on the edge of the pit. She could only have been insensible for a few seconds. She looked down and saw that the pit was full of bits of weed and pebbles and shells, as well as splintered pieces of wood which had comprised the coffin.
“Cathy?”
He was standing over her, on the other side. But he had changed completely. He was dressed in a white pierrot suit with big red bobbles on the front. He had a blue conical clown’s hat on his head, a triumphant grin on his face. He looked down at his costume and brushed a speck or two of sand off the front. He was once again her favourite brother. “Gosh,” he said, glancing up at the sun, “is that the time? I must have been dreaming. Hello, Cathy.”
She was still a bit nervous.
“Sorry about the first sight,” he said. “I didn’t want to alarm you. But I had to have your help, you see.”
Her alarm faded. She was suddenly delighted. She might have guessed he’d do something like this. “What a wonderful surprise!” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him warmly on his lips. “You are a one, Jerry.”
“Mum and Frank about?”
She looked for them. “Somewhere. Frank got cold.”
Her brother grinned. “I thought it was Frank. I had to get the fuel from somewhere. And Mum?”
Cathy laughed and clung to his arm. He was the best big brother in the world. “Look,” she said, pointing. “There they are. Poor old Frank!”
Frank was virtually under their feet, but in a little dip in the sand and so out of sight. He was curled into a tight ball and his flesh was all blue. His mirror sunglasses stared sightlessly from the top of his head. Cathy couldn’t help smiling. “It’s time Frank had a turn,” she said. “I shouldn’t laugh, really.”
Mrs Cornelius was still sprawled in her deckchair, her legs wide, her arms folded under her breasts, her chins shaking with each mighty snore. “She’s having one of her happy dreams,” said Jerry. “Do you think the tide will come in this far?”
“Just,” said Cathy, pointing at a mark on the breakwater.
“It’ll wet her feet. Nothing more. Let’s leave her there to enjoy herself.”
“It does seem a shame to disturb her,” said Jerry. He looked up at the sky. The gulls were still circling cheerfully overhead and the sea still sparkled, but the air was darkening a bit, though there wasn’t a cloud to be seen. “We could be in for some rain.”
“Leave her anyway,” said Cathy.
“All right.” He peered towards the horizon. “If you think it’s a good idea.” He frowned.
“There’s that boat Frank saw,” said Cathy. “It’s getting closer.”
“Ah, well, she’ll have to take her chances,” said Jerry. “Yes, I noticed that. It’s a destroyer.” He spoke absently, looking tenderly down at her. “Do you want to go for a sail, Cathy?”
“Lovely,” she said. “Or a swim?”
“I think I’ll hold off swimming for a while. I’m still a bit stiff.” He brushed the sand from his costume and, with long, easy strides, led her up the asphalt ramp to the promenade. “This way,” he said. “It’s in the harbour.”
It wasn’t far to walk to the old stone harbour. There was only one ship moored there and Cathy recognised the white schooner at once.
“It’s the good old Teddy Bear!” she cried. She was delighted. All its brasswork shone and bright bunting danced in the rigging. “Oh, how wonderful!” They raced along the jetty and up the gangplank. The engines were already running. A small crowd of children stood on the quay, staring at the ship with mute curiosity. They cheered as Jerry picked Cathy up and carried
her the last few paces onto the deck.
Almost as soon as they were aboard, the ship upped anchor, moved away from the jetty and out of the harbour, heading for the open sea. The children waved their pocket handkerchiefs and cheered again.
In her deckchair Mrs Cornelius stirred. The tide had begun to lap at her toes. It had already covered Frank. Behind her, the shops were beginning to close up for the day and the main street was deserted, save for Elizabeth Nye, pedalling slowly up the hill towards her home. A woman, wrapped in an old sack, turned the corner and signalled to her, but Elizabeth Nye was intent on her cycling. She didn’t notice Una Persson. Una looked out to sea and recognised the destroyer. She sat down on the pavement and waited.
On the sundeck of the yacht, Jerry found a ukelele. He collapsed into a steel-and-canvas Bauhaus chair and began to strum the uke while Cathy swayed peacefully in a hammock under an awning and sipped her lemonade. The coast sank slowly behind them as the Teddy Bear steered a course for Normandy.
“I’m not stuck up or proud. I’m just one of the crowd. A good turn I’ll do when I can!” Jerry sang his favourite George Formby medley. It had been a long time. “The local doctor one night needed something put right and he wanted a handy man…” Cathy winked at him and tapped her feet to the rhythm. Jerry rolled his eyes at her and wagged his clown’s hat as he went into a fast ukelele break. She laughed and clapped.
A few moments later they were interrupted by a dull roar from behind them. “Sounds like thunder,” said Cathy. “I hope we’re not in for a storm.”
Jerry put down the uke and pushed back the wide cuffs from both wrists, checking his watches. “No,” he said. “We’re all right.” He yawned. “It’s been a bloody long haul, all in all. You don’t mind if I get half an hour’s kip in, do you? Clausius summed it up in 1865. ‘The entropy of the universe tends to a maximum’. I suppose that’s when it all started. Did anyone celebrate his centenary? One idea leads to another. Ho hum.” His feet up on a canvas footstool, his hands folded in his lap, his healthy face at peace, the light wind tugging at the ruffles, folds, pleats and pom-poms of his red, white and blue pierrot suit, Jerry Cornelius fell asleep.
Catherine Cornelius got out of her hammock. She kissed her fingertips and put them on his smooth forehead. “Dear Jerry.” She went to the rail and looked back towards the vanished coast. “Goodbye, England.” The sound of thunder was fainter now. Perhaps the storm was moving away.
* * *
Dropping anchor a short distance offshore from the razed and smoking resort, the destroyer fired a few last rounds over the hill and got a direct hit on the village on the other side. A 4.5-inch shell took out the house. Four Sunstrike missiles turned the forest into an inferno. The farm, however, had been burning since the previous night.
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