Jamie, in his RNLI waterproofs, was yelling and gesturing frantically at people. As they reached him, they heard him yell, ‘Come away. Get away to safety! Wait for the emergency services.’
Across the promenade was strewn the remains of many of the beach huts. Designed to be easily dismantled for winter storage, the flimsy wooden structures had been no match for the storm. Whole sides of hut lay flat on the concrete, one had a wall blown off revealing a mangled collection of mugs, blankets, a kettle. Everything needed to make a cosy bolthole by the sea. Several huts remained upright and complete but had concertinaed into one another. The wind howled and snatched at a curtain. It sailed off into the darkness and snagged on the low wall which separated this part of the prom from the beach a foot or so below. People ran about, hands over their heads for protection, searching for their own hut and their possessions.
An older man retreated, shaking his head. He patted Jamie on the shoulder. ‘Rick, Daisy and I are heading back to the Sea Spray,’ he bellowed. ‘Can’t do much out here. I’ll look out for the police and send them your way.’ He was followed by a tall, dark-haired man who was shielding the woman who had sold Callie her flowers at the market.
‘Thanks, Colin,’ Jamie shouted back. ‘Wish the rest would listen. It’s useless. They’re just putting themselves in danger.’
As the trio went past Johnny, he stopped them, asking if there was anything he could do.
Callie tugged on Jamie’s sleeve. He was shouting into a walkie-talkie. ‘Jamie, have you seen Frida? My daughter? Tall, slim, long black hair.’ Her words were snatched away.
‘What?’ He cupped a hand around his ear to hear better against the wind.
Callie repeated what she’d said. ‘She’ll be dressed in a red dress. It’s got sequin embroidery on it.’
Jamie shoved sodden black hair off his forehead, irritably. ‘Yes. She went in that direction.’ He gestured to the far end of the prom where two or three huts could just about be seen. They were jammed together. ‘Said she was going to get AustinRuddick’s stuff out. Tried to stop her but she was having none of it. Said she was fond of the old man.’
‘Right.’
As Callie went to go, Jamie stayed her arm. ‘I can’t let you go over there, Callie. There’s debris all over the place. Stuff flying too. You could get a serious head injury. And the wooden panels on the ground have got nails protruding. You won’t see them in the dark. Wait here with me or, better still, go back to the café. The emergency services are on the way: the fire brigade and the coastguard. They’ll find her. It’s what they’re trained to do.’ He turned away as someone approached him from the other side, distracting him.
Callie took her chance. ‘Sorry, Jamie. I know you mean well but I’m going to find my daughter.’ Nearly tripping over a plank of wood and a sun lounger, she dodged around three half destroyed huts and ran.
Thirty-Two
Eugene Lepoittevin 1806–1870
French artist of landscapes and maritime battle scenes. Why do battle scenes need to be conveyed? Discuss bias in point of view.
(Taken from Calliope Thorne’s teaching notes.)
‘Callie!’ Johnny yelled at her rapidly retreating back. ‘You can’t go over there, it’s too dangerous. Let me go, Jamie, I need to go after her.’
‘Johnny, you can’t. It’s not safe. Wait until the coastguard and the others arrive. The storm’s getting worse.’
Johnny shook him off and ran after Callie. Ducking around several people who were wisely retreating, he lost sight of her yellow coat. The wind threw another gout of rain at him, making him stagger and then a clap of thunder reverberated around the bay, bouncing off the cliffs in the east.
He leaned against a beach hut, hands clamped over his ears. It was so violent it sounded like an explosion. The explosions he’d battled through in Iraq. The thunder echoed through hischest, into his head until he couldn’t think. His heart felt as if it was going to erupt into his throat. Squeezing his eyes shut he focused on his breathing exercises. It seemed ridiculous to try them out here in the middle of a storm, but it was all he had left. Somewhere in the storm was a frightened young woman and her mother. Callie.
He didn’t have a clue what had spooked Frida, and it was none of his business, but it must have been something serious. Callie might, at this very moment, be putting herself into danger hunting for her daughter. Yet here he was, frozen. This was why he’d left his job. Not so much knowing he wouldn’t cope in a situation like this, or where flashbacks made any kind of movement or rational thought impossible; it was the fear of letting someone down.
The baby’s body, broken and lifeless, swam into his vision. He’d been too late to get her out. It hadn’t been a bomb which had brought the building down on top of her, it had been an earthquake, but the end results had been the same. Death. Destruction. Sorrow. He’d seen too much. The recent long conversations with Verity had helped a little. She wasn’t a trained counsellor, she’d explained, but a good ear. It had been good to talk. Just talk. Drink endless cups of tea and get it out of his system. Verity had made him promise to book some sessions with a specialist. Had encouraged the breathing exercises. She’d been right. They were calming him down, allowing him to think more clearly.
A spike of lightning daggering across the churning black sea brought him back to the present. Talking to Verity had eased some of his worries but he still wasn’t sure he could do this. Maybe he should have listened to Jamie? He owed the guy an apology. Best leave it to the emergency services.
A man shouldered past him carrying an enormous cool box. ‘I’d get out of here if I was you, my friend,’ he yelled over anotherthunderclap. ‘Reckon the retaining wall’s got a good chance of coming down. Right on top of the end beach huts. Weight of all the water that’s draining down. Once the services are here, they’ll block off access, I reckon.’ He shook rain out of his eyes. ‘Tis a tragedy. All folks’ stuff.’
Johnny squinted through the rain, in the direction of where the man had come. The white lights strung along the seafront were swinging wildly, disorientating him. He needed to find Frida and Callie. Get them to safety. ‘Have you seen a woman?’ He grabbed the bloke by the arm, gesturing with his hand. ‘About so high. Wearing a yellow waterproof.’
The man shook his head, impatient to go.
‘Or a girl in her twenties.’ Johnny fought his memory. What had Frida been wearing? ‘Red dress. Dark hair. Pretty.’
‘Oh yes. Seen her all right. Up at the end. Last but one beach hut. The white striped one. Careful of that wall, mate. When the coastguard arrives, I’ll tell him where you’ve gone.’ More thunder made them flinch. ‘Never seen a summer storm like this one.’ A hut caught a gust of wind and slid, toppling over the low wall and onto the sand, splintering like matchsticks. The man dropped his cool box and ran, shielding his face as a part of a roof headed his way.
Johnny pressed against the hut which seemed to be surviving. Then he saw why. It had been blown into the supporting wall separating the two levels of the promenade. It had crumpled into half its size. If anyone had been in there they would have been crushed. And, if the wall collapsed on top, they’d have no chance of getting out.
If Frida and Callie were sheltering in a similar position, he had to do something before it was too late. Sirens penetrated the noise of the storm. The emergency services were on their way. But he was here. Now. On the scene. He could do something. He hadn’t been able to save that little girl in the earthquake, but hehad a chance of rescuing Frida. And Callie. His heart wrenched. She’d drawn away from him lately and he didn’t know why. But if he stayed here any longer, he may never find out.
