They plodded on, the pony sluggish, Beatrice watching the dark haze surge nearer, inking out the sky, cloaking the sea. White light flashed. A splash of rain struck her cheek, then another. The goal was reached and she wheeled the horse round. Nose to home, he grew more eager, breaking into a trot. Even so, by the time they reached the turning back to the stable, a stinging wind was blowing. She pulled up and took a final look out at the swelling sea. There was a sailing boat, flying before the wind, heading round the point to St Florian harbour. Further out, a small rowing dinghy inched towards the shore. She watched it for a moment, thinking it had better hurry, then came another great roar of thunder. Cloud reared in alarm, then charged forward in a wild gallop, ignoring his rider’s instructions, sensible only of stable and safety.
Beatrice dropped the reins then hurled herself forward, throwing her arms round his neck, gasping at him to stop. Some instinct told her to kick off the stirrups, so that when, finally, she fell, it was cleanly and into a yielding if prickly hedge. There she was caught, scratched and weeping, till bit by bit she worked herself free. The rain started in earnest now, great drops slapping her face and bare forearms, and the whole countryside vanished in thick mist that lit up and thundered. As she stumbled towards the stable she thought, Poor old Rafe and James Sturton on the beach, having to lug that great canoe back home . . . and then, with a stab of almost physical pain, she made the connection.
It was still sinking in, this realization, when a huge figure formed out of the mist ahead. For a moment she was terrified, then saw it was Harry, enveloped in oilskins.
‘Thank God you’re safe, miz,’ he cried, reaching her and seizing her shoulders, his breath coming in great gasps. ‘Your face. Are you all right?’ She touched her cheek and blood and rain flowed down her fingers.
‘Just scratches,’ she said above the noise of the storm. ‘From the hedge. Is . . .?’
‘Cloud’s safely in his stable. I was that worried – you could have fallen anywhere. Run with me now or you’ll catch your death.’
‘Harry, no.’ Her teeth were chattering. ‘The beach. You’ve got to come. Trouble. A friend of mine. There’s another boy, too.’ She wasn’t making sense.
‘You’re soaked through, Miss Beatrice.’
‘I don’t care. We’ve got to hurry. They’re out in a boat. They won’t get back in time.’
She stared into his weathered, rain-blurred face and he saw her urgency. ‘Wait a moment,’ he cried, and disappeared back into the mist. When he returned, long minutes later, he carried a second oilskin and a coil of rope.
The beach was deserted. The sea, good-tempered such a short time before, was a raging beast. They heard its angry roar, then, running down the beach, met huge waves that dashed the shore, clawing up towards the dunes. Beatrice stared into the tumult, and uselessly cried, ‘Rafe!’ but could see nothing through the rain and spray.
Moments passed, then Harry gave a shout and rushed into the waves, where she saw him clutch at something. It flipped up in his grasp and she saw its large solid shape – like a coffin, she thought. It was the canoe. He had it, now, wrestled it into the shallows and levered it upright. It was empty – what else did she expect? She helped him drag it out onto the sand.
‘We’ll find them, miz,’ Harry said, and strode back into the sea. Together they waded up and down the shoreline, searching and calling, then he turned and said, ‘You must go for help. The nearest house.’
She did not like to leave, but knew she must. She stared one last time through the stormy waves. The rain seemed to be lessening now, and an ethereal gold light suffused the air. The worst of the storm was passing. Then the light caught something in the water, a brief flash of silver and a long pale shape in a breaking wave and it was gone. The wave crashed and there the shape was again. With a cry she rushed towards it.
She struggled, was sucked down across sand and stones, pain, darkness, then up again, her lungs bursting. As she lurched to her feet, whooping for air, she was struck by something softly solid, felt cloth and hair against her skin. She grabbed at the body and, wrapping her arms around it, held on for dear life. Crying to Harry for help, she braced herself, digging her feet into the shifting sand. Harry reached her now and with the help of a following wave, they heaved the body onto the beach. It was shrouded in water, a lifeless thing. Harry rolled it onto its back and she gave a howl. It was Rafe.
Harry knew what to do. He felt for a pulse then tipped back the boy’s head and bent to breathe air into his mouth, again and again. Nothing happened for a long time, then suddenly Rafe lurched forward and began to retch. Beatrice helped Harry to turn him onto his side, where he lay coughing and sobbing. The grey limbs were flushing faintly now and his eyes fluttered open. She knelt to stroke his face, crying, ‘Rafe, Rafe, come on, it’s all right,’ and he rolled onto his front, confused and terrified.