what this’ll do to Mummy.”
“It’s better than telling her,” the boy countered doggedly. “It’s better than her finding out what happened.”
“For God’s sake, Nick, she’s your mother! Mothers were put on the earth to forgive their children – whatever they’ve done.”
“Not this.”
“Yes, even this, whatever it may be. The one thing a mother won’t forgive is herself, if she allows one of her children to take his own life. She’ll blame herself for that throughout the rest of her days. Is that the fate you want to condemn your mummy to?” There was silence. “The fate that Aaron Spalding’s mother’s condemned to?”
Carole knew it had been a risk, and the boy definitely flinched at the name. At the same moment, a rogue wave, a bit ahead of itself, broke noisily behind him. The slap sent up a little column of spray which came down over his head, flattening his hair to a shiny skullcap.
Whether it was the imminent reality of his demise or Carole’s arguments which swayed him, she would never know. All that mattered was that suddenly, convulsively, Nick Kent grabbed hold of the hem of the Burberry. Carole could feel the shock of his weight, the socket-wrenching tug on the arm that grasped the raincoat’s collar, and the equally painful strain on the arm that was hooked round the ladder.
“OK, we’re coming with the duckboards!” a self-important voice announced from the top of the sea wall. “Easy does it. We’ll just – oh, bugger!”
Carole heard something heavy rushing through the air, then a sound like a small fart as the object flumped into the mud. A slatted rectangle of duckboarding stuck upright at an angle out of the ooze. It was a good three yards away from both the ladder and the sinking boy.
Again, Carole’s mind, with its poorly developed sense of occasion, demanded why, in a crisis of this kind, when the best help available was required, the rescue mission seemed to be in the hands of Dad’s Army or the Keystone Cops?
From above, she could hear more argument. One pompous elderly voice was saying that duckboards weren’t the answer, they should be throwing down a lifebelt. Another argued back that duckboards were the answer, but they needed to be lowered down on ropes. A third announced that a similar thing had happened when he’d been stationed out in Singapore.
“For Christ’s sake!” Carole bawled upwards. “Throw down a lifebelt, you stupid old fools!”
This prompted some huffing and puffing of the ‘Not very ladylike’ variety, but after a few seconds there was a cry of, “Mind your heads!”, and a halo of plastic-covered cork whirled down through the air.
With a squelch, the lifebelt came to rest on the mudflat, between the capsized duckboarding and the stranded boy. Though less than a yard away from him, Nick Kent could no more have reached it than he could have flown. Each inward swirl of water was now lapping over his shoulders.
There was another, “Bugger!” from above, then, “Let’s see if we can work it round.”
Manipulating the lifebelt with its rope, an attempt was made to flip it nearer to the boy. The ring rose in the air, complaining against the suction of the mud, and then flopped down again, a yard nearer to the sea wall.
Carole couldn’t reach it. Still she clutched desperately at her Burberry, feeling the dead weight at the other end. She longed to change her hold, unhook her other arm from the ladder and get a two-handed grip on the coat, but she didn’t dare. There was no hope of pulling him out with the Burberry, but at least they were in contact.
Another bumptious wave came along and broke right over the boy’s head. She heard him splutter as he got a mouthful of water. Coughing, he said, “It’s not going to work. I’m going to die here.”
“No, you’re not,” said Carole firmly. “Anyway, a few moments ago that’s what you said you wanted to happen.”
“Not now.”
“Good.”
“We’ll get you out of this,” Carole announced, though she wouldn’t have liked to have the provenance of her confidence investigated.
There was another splutter from the boy as a new wave caught him. Either because of further slippage into the mud or because of the rising water, only his head was now visible, and that got covered by the crest of each incoming wave.
Above them on the sea wall, old men, reliving distantly remembered wartime actions, shouted and countermanded each other’s orders. If they ever did get to the point of agreeing a course of action, it would be far too late for Nick Kent.
Carole was aware of the sound of a boat’s motor putt-putting closer. Craning round from her Burberry tug- of-war posture, she saw a small wooden launch approaching. There were two men in it, though she could not identify them in the gloom.
The boat was certainly aiming for Nick, but looked unlikely to get there in time. The boy’s head was now only intermittently visible between the waves. No more sounds of spluttering or protest came from his submerged mouth. Only the continuing tension on the Burberry told Carole he was still alive. But for how much longer?
There was a splash from the approaching boat and she was aware of something moving through the water. It was a man swimming.
Just as the swimmer approached the spot where Nick had been, Carole felt a jolt through her body. The countertension on the Burberry was gone. Nick Kent had let go.
The swimmer was splashing around in the water, fixing something. Then he shouted back to the boat. “All right, he’s breathing through the snorkel. Chuck the rope down!”
Carole knew the voice, but in the tension of the moment could not put a name to it.
The man on the launch did as he was told. There was a rattle of anchor cable and the note of the motor changed to idling. The swimmer kept bobbing beneath the surface, near where the boy had last been seen.
“OK,” the swimmer called out. “Take the strain!”
It’s hopeless, thought Carole. For one thing, the boy’s probably already dead. For another, no elderly member of the Fethering Yacht Club is going to be strong enough to pull a body up against the suction of that mud.
But she had reckoned without a winch. As soon as she heard the clank of gearing and the screech of ratchets, she knew there was a chance.
The man on the launch worked the machinery, the swimmer kept the boy’s snorkel upright, as he eased the body out of its clammy prison. Winching and manhandling, they flipped the inert mass over the stern of the boat. At that moment there was a cheer from the armchair admirals on top of the sea wall. With remarkable agility, the swimmer then pulled himself up on board as well.
“Is he all right?” Carole called across the void. “Is Nick all right?”
“Will be,” called the swimmer’s familiar voice. “Just get the water out of his lungs. He’ll be fine.”
As the tension drained out of her, Carole realized that she had no strength left in her arms. It was all she could do to cling on to the ladder. The challenge of climbing back up it was insuperable.
“Hey!” she shouted. “Could someone give me a hand up the ladder?”
This request seemed set to start a new debate as to which Fethering Yacht Club member should take on the task, and what would be the best way of approaching it, but fortunately a rough voice cut through the cackle. “I’ll get her.”
Carole felt the ringing through the tubes of the ladder as a heavy body descended. When she felt his strong arms safely cradling her, she said tartly, “You were supposed to meet me at seven, Ted Crisp.”
“Oh, really? I thought you said eight.”
“Honestly!”
“Why? Did I miss much?”
There are some questions, Carole thought, that aren’t worth answering.
Looking down at the Burberry still gripped firmly in her hand, Ted Crisp said, “Aren’t you going to chuck that filthy old thing?”
“Certainly not! Ooh, and could you manage to reach the belt down there?”
By swinging ape-like from the bottom rung and trailing his large foot across the mud, he managed to hook up the belt. He handed it across to her. “There you are, madam. Your natural elegance restored.”
“Thank you.”
“Though it’s about to be shot to pieces again by me giving you a fireman’s lift.” And he slung her over his
