'Put an arm round her shoulders and one under her knees and lift, sir,' I coached.
'She's a little thing--you should be able to carry her, even a scholar like you.'
Mr Buckland did what I said and heaved Fanny into his arms. She screamed again, in pain and shame. Letting her arms flop wide, she turned her head away from him.
'For God's sake, Fanny, put your arms round him!' I cried. 'Help the man or he'll never get you back.'
Fanny obeyed me, throwing her arms round his neck and burying her head against his chest.
'Take her to the bath house--that's the closest place--and send people straight back with spades.' I wouldn't normally direct a gentleman so, but Mr Buckland seemed to have lost his wits. 'Hurry, please, sir. I can't bear being alone like this.'
As he nodded, another section of cliff fell away with a crash. Mr Buckland flinched, terror written all over his face. I fastened my eyes on his. 'Sir, pray for me. And if I die, tell Mam and Joe--'
'D- d- don't say such a thing, Mary. I'll be back shortly.' Mr Buckland would not listen, but staggered away, Fanny gazing at me with glazed eyes over his shoulder. Now that she had surrendered to his arms she was beyond care. Later Doctor Carpenter would set her leg, but the break was awkward and never healed properly, and left her with one leg shorter than the other. She could never walk far or stand for long, and could never again come out upon beach--not that she would want to. Whenever I saw her hobbling down Broad Street to the Three Cups, I ducked my head to avoid that fearful blue gaze.
Course I didn't know any of that then, held fast in the landslip. I watched Mr Buckland weaving down the beach with his burden, not going fast enough for me, and wondered why it was that the pretty ones were always rescued before the plain. That was how the world worked: with her big eyes and dainty features, Fanny did not get stuck, whereas I was caught in the mud, the cliff threatening to crumble on top of me.
There was a lot of time to think. I thought of Mr Buckland, and how odd it were that for an ordained man so interested in what God had been up to in the past, he hadn't been much comfort with prayers, but run away from them. I closed my eyes and said a long prayer myself, for God to spare me, to let me live on to help Mam and Joe, to find more crocs, to have enough to eat and coal to burn, even to have a husband and children one day. 'And please, God, make Mr Buckland a runner rather than a walker today. Make him find someone quick, and come back.' Although Mr Buckland was happy wandering miles along the cliff, and regularly walked to Axminster and back while in Lyme, he did not hurry. He had a scholar's belly on him, and I worried that with Fanny in his arms he would not get back quick enough to save me.
It was quiet now. The wind had died down, and a fine misty rain sprayed my face.
Now and then I heard the faint skitter of more debris tumbling down the cliff to the ground. I couldn't see it because it were behind me and I couldn't turn my head all the way round. That was the worst, hearing it and not knowing how close it was, or if it would bury me.
The mud that held me was cold and heavy and pressing on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I closed my eyes for a bit, thinking that sleep might make the time go faster. But I couldn't sleep, so instead I followed Mr Buckland in my mind as he went back to Lyme. Now he's passing where we found the first croc, I thought. Now he's passing the ledge with the ammo impressions. Now he's reached the bend where the path starts. Now he's in sight of Jefferd's Baths. Maybe Mr Jefferd is there and will come running, faster than Mr Buckland. I traced the path there and back again--and it was not so far back to Lyme--but no one come.
I opened my eyes. Mr Buckland was a dot along Church Cliffs. I couldn't believe he hadn't got farther. But then, it was hard to say how much time had passed--it could have been ten minutes or hours. I looked the other way, down the beach towards Charmouth. There were no boats out, or fishermen checking crab pots, for it was too rough. There was no one at all. And the tide had turned, and was slowly creeping up.
I gave up looking for help, and begun to notice things closer to me. The landslip had caused a churning up of rocks caught in an ooze of blue-grey clay. My eyes flicked over the stones near to me and come to rest on a familiar shape about four feet from me: a ring of overlapping bony scales the size of my fist. A croc's eye. It were like it was staring straight at me. I cried out with the surprise of seeing it. Then, several feet past the eye, there was a movement. It was only tiny, but I cried out again, and it moved again. It was just a little pink spot sticking out of the clay, and with the rain in my eyes it was hard to see what it was. I wondered if it were a crab, scrabbling about in the mud.
'Hey!' I called, and it moved. It was not a crab, but a finger. I felt so relieved and sick at the same time that I think I fainted. When I come to I looked at the spot again, and it wasn't moving. I cleared my throat.
'Who's that?' I said, but not loud enough. 'Who's that?' I repeated, as loud as I could. The finger moved. I was so happy not to be alone that I laughed aloud.
'Joe? Is it Joe?' The finger didn't move.
'Mam? Miss Philpot?'
No movement. I knew it couldn't have been any of them, for I would have known they were upon beach. But who else would be out in such weather? I supposed it could have been one of the children from Lyme, come to spy on Mary Anning and the man she attended, hoping to see something scandalous that they could report back on. But it
