Nicola Barker - Darkmans

There were brutal yarns aplenty: tales of smuggling, of piracy (a problem endemic to the port: ‘Those unprincipled scum’d plunder a robin if its chest was bright…’), of filth, contagion and vicious armed attack.

The ‘bastard French’ (Elen winced at his language) had virtually razed the place in 1360 with an invading force of 3,000 men. They’d slaughtered so many townsfolk that the graveyard couldn’t hold them and their bodies were unceremoniously piled — like human ballast (Dory described the scene, with an almost palpable relish) — five or more deep, into local embankments.

He also detailed (helpfully mapping out the local geography, in the air, with his finger) how a concerted (but ultimately disastrous) policy of land reclamation in the Romney Marsh region — principally instituted by the greedy Church — had unleashed untold environmental (and economic) damage further down the coast by encouraging many of their fine, natural water courses to silt up.

‘There was a terrible storm,’ he remembered (Fleet listening, all agog), ‘a legendary storm. It raged so fierce that the tide didn’t ebb. It flowed twice — like a final, cruel judgement from a vengeful God. The flooding and loss of life in the old town was catastrophic. And when the tide finally withdrew, all that remained of that once great port were its shattered foundations, hidden, acres deep, in slime and mud…

‘But canny King Edward,’ he continued, ‘remained unbowed. He knew the value of the place, strategically. So he quickly devised a plan to transport Winchelsea — lock, stock and barrel — up on to a nearby hill, to rebuild her afresh — and that’s exactly what he did, and that’s exactly where she stands today; daintily pulling up her skirts from the thirsty River Brede as it licks and laps about her pretty ankles…’

Suddenly (and completely without warning), just as they entered the tiny, nondescript villiage of Jury’s Gap (a raggle-taggle line of cottages fringing the road, which dutifully adhered — in turn — to the tall sea wall), Dory broke off from his story-telling and lunged wildly for the steering wheel: ‘ Stop , Elen! Quick! ’ he yelled.

Elen panicked. She swerved. She applied the brake. They skidded. A car behind them honked its horn.

‘Dory, no !’ she exclaimed, guiding the car off the road. ‘You can’t just…’

She stopped the vehicle, with a slight jerk, applied the handbrake, then turned, in shock (her eyes wide, her hands shaking).

‘ Look ,’ Dory exclaimed, completely ignoring her agitation and pointing, with an exultant grin, towards a nearby cottage.

‘Look where , Papa?’ Fleet asked, gathering his matchboxes up off the floor.

‘For Sale !’ Dory whooped, clapping his hands together.

‘What?!’ Elen scowled, incredulous.

‘For Sale ,’ Dory reiterated, cuffing her, flirtatiously, on the shoulder. ‘Don’t you remember ?’

Before she could answer he’d bundled the dog up under his arm, had sprung from the car, and was heading towards a small, ill-maintained, plasterboard bungalow. It was up for sale. There was a sign out the front.

‘What’s Papa doing, Mama?’ Fleet asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Elen murmured. ‘He seems to be going to look at that house.’

Dory strolled through the gate (it was off its hinges) and down the path. A moment later and he was knocking boldly on the front door.

‘He’s knocking on the door, Mama,’ Fleet said, now perched up on his knees, his arms curled around her headrest.

‘Yes, Fleet. I can see that…’

After a short pause the door was opened by a young girl (perhaps sixteen or seventeen years of age); a slightly plump, eccentric-looking creature sporting a voluminous, grey mohair jumper (full of holes, pulled down almost to her knees), a pair of over-long, baggy jeans (which were extravagantly split and frayed at her heels) and scruffy, blonde dreadlocks, yanked back from her face into a shapeless, olive-green crocheted hat (with the charming addition of a clutch of small, plastic daisies poking intermittently through the knit). Dory spoke to her.

‘What’s Papa saying?’ Fleet wondered.

‘I don’t know.’

The girl — initially suspicious — was soon smiling and nodding. She reached out her hand and patted Michelle’s head.

‘She’s patting Michelle,’ the boy said.

Dory turned and pointed towards the car. The girl glanced over. She nodded again. Dory waved his arm at them. He beckoned them to join him.

‘Oh God , no,’ Elen groaned, covering her mouth with her hand.

‘He wants us to go, Mama,’ Fleet said. ‘Shall we go? Shall we go now?’

Dory gesticulated again, this time more keenly.

‘Okay,’ Elen said, turning around, ‘we should go. But I need you to be a good boy for me, Fleet. I need you to be very calm and grown up. Do you understand?’

She gave him a meaningful look.

‘Of course, Mama,’ Fleet said.

They climbed out of the car. She took him by the hand. They made their way, swiftly, over towards the property. By the time they’d reached the front step Dory was already half-way down the hallway.

‘I don’t know,’ he was saying, ‘it’s the same but different , if you see what I mean…’

He turned. ‘Elen, Fleet…this is Gaynor. She’s very kindly agreed to give us a quick tour around Aunt Mary’s old home.’

Gaynor nodded her welcome to them both. ‘I only wish my Dad was in,’ she said, ‘he’s the real expert on the area. Works behind the bar on The Ranges. He’s lived here all his life — grew up on Broomhill Farm…’

Dory’s face broke into a delighted grin. ‘We always bought our eggs there,’ he said.

‘Really? God . My dad never stops banging on about how it was always his job to clean out the chicken shed. The smell was just terrible, he says. He hated those birds…’

‘Perhaps we knew each other?’ Dory speculated. ‘What’s his name? Is he my age? A little older?’

‘His proper name’s David Thomas, but everyone calls him Chubby — Chubby Thomas. He was born in 1954. I’m the youngest of eight,’ she smiled, ‘what my mum likes to call “an afterthought”.’

‘Chubby…’ Dory considered the name as they followed her through to the kitchen. ‘It rings a vague bell, actually. But he was possibly a little old to’ve been a regular playmate…’

He glanced around him. ‘Gracious me,’ he exclaimed, ‘the old range …’

He walked over to a large, black Aga and ran a fond hand along the rail.

She nodded. ‘It’s always been there. We’ve never actually managed to get it working but it was too heavy to shift. Dad’s ripped out pretty much everything else over the years…’

‘I can see that…’ Dory shrugged, benignly. ‘But it still has the same…’

‘Atmosphere?’ she filled in. He nodded.

‘Is the cottage very old?’ Elen interrupted.

‘Not ancient, no. But a good age for around here…’

‘And there’s still direct river access out the back?’ Dory enquired.

‘The Gut? Sure…’

She opened the back door. A gust of cold, sea air blasted inside.

‘My aunt used to call it a “drowning river”…’ Dory stepped forward and poked his head out. ‘She’d never let me swim in it. I remember I built a raft one year but she wouldn’t let me float it out there…’

‘It’s very reeded up,’ the girl conceded, pulling the door shut.

‘So you’re selling?’ Elen asked, brightly.

‘Yes. My parents have split and my mum needs her half to set herself up. Dad’s really pissed off about it, though. He loves the old place and property’s so expensive round here…’