Ross Raisin - Gods Own Country

♦

A change in the light was the first sign of Whitby. It was black still when we got near, so the dull fug of orange sat over the town showed us the way. We didn’t head straight there, though — we angled toward the coast just south of it. It was too parlous yet, staying in the town. We had to hide out a while longer, fettle up our plans, figure out how we’d manage stowing on a ship, bide a time until our faces weren’t so fresh in folks’ minds — until they were half-forgot, crumpled up at the bottom of the dustbin, sogged with gravy leavings and budgerigar shite.

There were fields now, cut into the moor, and paths, walls, a road. There was one wall I couldn’t find a gate for, and she wouldn’t go over the stile, so I had a job hoisting her up by the armpits, my fingers pressing into the fleshy tops of her breasts. She wasn’t mighty chuffed about it, but I ignored her, it was her fault anyhow, not going over by herself. We were on a path, moving downhill, hedgerows either side and sand dusted over the floor, the sound of cold, foamy waves crashing against the cliff, and the path opening out on to a great rocky beach. And then the sea, the lull of the sea, a salty mist stinging up our nostrils as we ran on to the beach. Dark, brooding cliff stretched both directions unbroken, except for one small pip of light nicked into the coastline — Whitby. We moved otherways from it, toward the dark. I was as good as dragging her along now, she was that tired. She was weak as a bandy-legged lamb, she’d have laid down right there, on the high jagged rocks climbing out the swirl, if I hadn’t towed her on. I’m looking for the right spot, I told her loud over the spray. I wasn’t worried about finding one. This stretch of coast was riddled with caves and tunnels and boggle-holes worn into the cliff, I knew — I’d spent hours and hours here before, playing at smugglers with Jess. We’d hide out in the boggle-holes, riling Mum and Janet right up for disappearing the whole afternoon, searching for forgotten smuggler hoards, ancient stashes of tobacco or jewellery untouched for a hundred years. Bracelets? I’ll show you bracelets — gold, silver, studded with diamonds and rubies stolen from the Orient, you don’t get those in a Christmas cracker, do you?

We tried a couple of likely gaps that turned out to be flood-caves, before we found the champion spot. It wasn’t mighty large, but it was snugly hid. In the crook between the cliff and a jetty of rock was a boggle-hole with a low, pooled entrance you had to slide in lengthways so your backside was sopping, but then it opened into a small cavern high enough you could kneel inside. I’d need to get a light, or some matches, as I couldn’t see hardly anything, but it was perfect. It had a dry, sandy floor and enough space the both of us could lie down. No smuggled booty, mind. She rested down, her body juddering sobs and a quiet whimper coming from her. The journey had took a toll, she wasn’t in the best shape. She’d be fine, though, after a rest. I was thinking to untie her, but I knew she might sneak off when I was asleep, so I felt round the walls at all the stalactite formings hanging down over us heads, and I found one that curled from the ceiling in a ring on to the wall. It was the best luck yet. I knotted the wrist leash to it and then I set about making another, ripping the last strap off my rucksack by rubbing it up, down over a rock, and leashing that one to her ankle. Afterward, I lay down next her, rolled on my side, the sound of spray outdoors and the damp heat of her body and flutterbugs of excitement skittering in my belly, thinking what I’d do in the morning.

Aslant of light was glimmering on the entrance pool. Another belting day, with any luck. I craned forward for a look outdoors, and I thought I’d never seen the world looking so gradely, it was that postcard. Past the rocks I could see a vast of bare beach and beyond that the surf, eddies of water gathering, swelling unstoppable forward — crash — gliding racing bubbling then, retreating, drawn under the pull of the next. Mum, Father, the weather’s champion and we’re both doing fine. And the best of all is there’s no other bugger around, we’ve the place to usselves. Wish you were here, love, Nimrod.

She was lain on the sand still, and I whispered her my plans. I’m off to get us some food, I told her. I explained she had to stay put, for the time. I made sure the straps were tied fast, and I left off.

After I’d climbed the path to the cliff top, I stepped toward the edge and stopped a moment to look out over the sea. I was stood above where our house must’ve been, fifty yards beneath. Inching forward until I could see down the face of the cliff, I tried to gleg the entrance pool, but there were too many rocks in the way, overhanging, so I moved off, taking the cliff path toward Whitby.

There were plenty of folk about, most of them groups of tourists tantling through the cobbled streets from shopfront to shopfront, cooing at the windows. I followed behind when they herded off, and looked what they’d been staring at. It was always some feckless trunklement no one would ever buy — a silver plate knife and fork set, or a plastic fish with a clock lodged in its gut. I got bored before long, so I trundled down to the centre of town where the harbour was, huddled round the sides the river as it widened and slurped into the sea. There was a stink of fish, and stacks of empty lobster pots everywhere. A few fishermen were fettling up their boats, but they paid no heed of me. I had a look round to see if there were any cargo or passenger ships, but they must’ve set off from a different port, here was all fishing fleets, save for one small, open-decked affair with a sign aside it. BOAT TRIPS — SEALS — BIRD ISLAND. This is it, love, I’ve found us the perfect place to live. An island, miles away from anybody, fleece-white, plastered in puffin shite. Then I saw what I was looking for. A length of rope, damp and heavy, coiled up by some crates. I checked none of the fishermen were watching before I hung it over my shoulder and went off on a food search.

There were plenty fish and chip shops one side the harbour, doing business already, folk stood scattered along the quayside poking tidgy wooden forks into cartons. I slunk past them to the empty, wind-bassocked pier, studying the situation over. Trouble was, if I ran off without paying, people would look, they’d mark my face, my clothes, someone might snout I was one of the Moors convicts. I had to think a way of doing it quiet, unnoticed. The days of smashing windows were over now, that was sure. Further down the pier, a seagull was perched on the rim of a dustbin, jabbing at the rubbish. After a couple of tries, he stabbed something and yanked it out, flapping down to attack it on the ground. As I came closer, I saw it was a bent-up fish box. He had his head inside, scraffling along the tarmac with his wings half-spread, warning, bugger off, this is my dinner, you get your own. Don’t worry, feller, I told him, that’s just what I’m thinking about. He clocked me when I reached the dustbin, one eye examining me over a piece of cod mushed to his cheek. He watched me a moment before returning to his scran, and I marked, as he chased at a stray chip, that he had a crammocky, hobble-hopping walk. His left leg was gammy, swollen up at the knee, he couldn’t put his full, fat weight on it. You’ve got some gumption, I’ll give you that, I told him, that’s smart thinking, getting your scran out of there. He looked up. Sod off — I’m eating. Right you are, right you are. But when he turned his tail on me, I had a gleg in the dustbin to see what he’d left. It was near full with fish boxes. I looked round, but there was only an old couple staring to sea, so I reached in and pulled one out.