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  A relaxed and contented quiet had settled over us after the initial attack on the supplies brought from home, and fishermen and observers alike seemed happily lost in their thoughts. The gentle lapping of the sea upon the boat and shore saved the silence from seeming unnatural.

  Mr Disvan had produced a large meerschaum pipe from somewhere and was looking out over the sea while he smoked it. This surprised me on two counts for, in the first place, I had never seen him smoke before, and secondly because the smoke, when it reached me, was aromatic and sweet and entirely unlike that of normal tobacco. I tried to place where I’d encountered that herbal smell before and realised quickly that it was in the context of the concerts and student bed-sits of my early university days. I was wondering just how to frame the question that naturally sprang to mind when Mr Disvan saved me the trouble by addressing me:

  ‘Looking for the castle are you, Mr Oakley?’

  ‘Well, I was a moment ago, yes.’

  ‘You won’t be able to see it; there are no lights there at all—but that’s the direction you’d need to look in.’

  He indicated with his finger the general line of sight.

  ‘A very interesting place, that,’ he continued. ‘Probably the last organised centre of resistance against the invaders in the Wealden area.’

  ‘What invaders?’

  ‘You lot. The Angles and Saxons and Jutes of course.’

  ‘Oh, you’re talking of way back, are you. Yes, I understand now.’

  ‘In Roman times it was a port with its own squadron of war ships and a garrison of professional fighting men. Then when the Roman ways began to fail, I suppose people turned to it for guidance and protection.’

  ‘But without success, presumably.’

  ‘That’s right. Time moves on, you see, and their particular time was over. There’s little point in fighting against it although people persevere in doing so. However, while it lasted and there were men to man the walls, Pevensey Castle would have been the focal point of this stretch of coast. The last flickering light of Roman civilisation you might say, if you were feeling poetic.’

  With this thought he lapsed into silence again leaving me to contemplate Roman Britain’s last stand. I was just succeeding in visualising these stoic, doomed defenders (it was hard to imagine them without togas and legionary armour) when Disvan again broke my train of thought.

  ‘Actually I’m misleading you to a certain extent,’ he said absently. ‘In those times the Castle wasn’t a castle but what you might more properly call a fort, and its name was Anderida, not Pevensey. Similarly, I very much doubt that the men who held it were what we would understand as soldiers. A very late Roman document mentions a unit of barbarian mercenaries there.’

  ‘You’re very knowledgeable about all this.’

  ‘So I should be.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  He puffed away at his pipe, perhaps just the hint of a satisfied grin on his face at this drawing out of my restrained curiosity.

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘They all died. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle says that in 491 AD, and I quote: “Aelle and Cissa besieged Andredes Ceaster and slew all who were in there. Not one Briton was left alive”.’

  ‘You’ve been genning up on this specially for the trip.’

  ‘No, I promise you not.’

  ‘And with them, I suppose, went the last memory of Rome in the region.’

  ‘Possibly not, but what does it matter? The invaders prevailed and we’re a whole civilisation away from the events of that time. People should forget.’

  This puzzled and intrigued me. ‘Forget? I thought they had. Come on, out with it for once, Mr Disvan, what exactly do you mean?’

  He looked relaxedly at me for a while and then opened his mouth to speak when, just at that moment, Harry let out a loud excited cry. Our attention was naturally diverted, and I thus never learnt the nature of Disvan’s intended reply.

  ‘What is it, Harry?’ said someone.

  ‘It’s a catch, a catch,’ he replied excitedly. ‘My first in three months!’

  ‘Good on you, boy,’ said the landlord, ‘bring ‘er on in.’

  Morton needed little urging; he played the fish like the natural he was, alternately feeding the line out and then feverishly reeling the victim in to its doom.

  ‘A big-un is it, Harry?’ said the off-duty Binscombe Community Policeman who was along with us.

  ‘Moderate. Nothing enormous, but quite promising.’

  ‘Well come on then, let’s have a look at it.’

  ‘I’ve nearly got it, she’s weakening.’ Harry pulled the rod almost vertical and reeled hard. ‘Here we go!’

  As these words escaped his lips, the water at the boat’s edge erupted and from the water spout a large white figure surged with blinding speed to grasp Morton’s fishing rod.

  Harry screamed (it’s possible that we all did) and attempted to retreat, but his collar was quickly grasped by an implacable strong arm. As we all cravenly drew back and abandoned him to his fate, Morton was gradually drawn to the boat’s rail until his knees were hard against it and he had to fight to stop himself being dragged over.

  What was once Mary Morton was considerably the worst for wear but still instantly recognisable as the woman we had known. With one arm over the rail and the other clasped like a lover’s around Harry’s neck, she stared with sightless eyes into her husband’s terrified face while drawing him, slowly but surely, towards her. As he came she mouthed angry words and phrases at him but no sound came forth from the badly damaged throat.

  Sensing the inevitable end to this unequal struggle, Harry recovered a modicum of self control and turned to face us:

  ‘Help me, please, she’s going to kill me!’

  Mr Disvan stepped forward and shouted something that I either didn’t quite catch or that was in a language I didn’t understand. It seemed to have some effect because the monster woman turned to look at us for the first time.

  Being under the relentless scrutiny of that dead, white face made me forget Harry’s plight for a moment and wish with all my heart that Disvan had not attracted her attention. Fortunately (for us) the experience was not prolonged, for she shook her green matted hair and with a controlled, almost languid, motion spat contemptuously at Disvan before returning to her grisly endeavours.

  She tightened her embrace and drew Harry right up to her waterlogged, naked body. Then, with a final heave, our friend’s feet were lifted completely off the deck and the one-time husband and wife fell back into the water.

  Even then, it seemed, the battle continued, for vigorous splashing noises could be heard interspersed with occasional desperate cries and, perhaps inspired or shamed by Morton’s tenacious fight for life, I shook off my paralysis and rushed to help.

  Quite what I intended to do remains unclear to this day, but en route to the point of Harry’s departure I grabbed a boat hook, possibly with vain hopes of killing what was already dead.

  Wielding this inadequate weapon I leaned, perhaps foolishly, over the side and instantly found myself face to face with the woman I’d seen buried a few months before. She was half raised out of the sea as, with both of her hands on the top of his head, she pushed her spouse beneath the waves. All that was visible of Harry was his pate and two wildly flailing arms. Realising that she was observed, the creature looked at me and grinned in triumph. For a mere second or so we exchanged glances as she went about her work. What Mary Morton saw in my face I cannot guess nor wish to speculate but for my part I recall only her white, water-filled eyeballs and the complete absence of earthly life behind them. It was a sight that will accompany me, ever fresh, till I at last reach my own grave.

  Weakly and, I was later told, in a state of some shock, I fell back.

  Our last sight of Harry Morton was of him being borne away, seemingly still alive, with his head clamped firmly under one of his wife’s arms while the other propell
ed them strongly out to sea. A final despairing yell wafted back to us and then the gloom swallowed them up.

  For several long minutes silence reigned on the boat before the constable aboard felt it his duty to try and rally us.

  ‘He fell overboard,’ he stated authoritatively. ‘He accidentally fell overboard and for some inexplicable reason went down like a stone. That’s what we’ll say. What with both me and Mr Disvan testifying, no suspicion will fall upon us.’

  ‘You can’t be serious!’ I interjected rather loudly. ‘You saw what happened to Harry and you’ll just say he fell overboard?’

  ‘It’s for the best, Mr Oakley,’ said the landlord gently.

  ‘After all,’ agreed another, ‘in a manner of speaking, that’s what did happen. He did fall overboard. We don’t have to say how exactly, do we?’

  ‘Look at it this way, Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan in as kindly a voice as I’d yet heard him use, ‘what else could you say? Nobody would believe you, and getting yourself into a mess in that way won’t bring Harry back, will it?’

  Once considered, Disvan’s argument seemed unanswerable, but even so a wave of bitterness at Morton’s fate and the world in general swept over me.

  ‘Whatever happened to the truth, Mr Disvan?’

  ‘It lost credibility Mr Oakley, and went into hiding.’

  ‘Amen,’ said the policeman. ‘Put the boat about. Let’s head for home.’

  * * *

  Mr Morton’s body was washed ashore several days later, ‘slightly bashed about and nibbled by the fishes,’ as the blunt and thick-skinned coastguard told Mr Disvan on the telephone.

  After the legal formalities of autopsy and inquest were served, it therefore fell upon us to attend a second and final Morton funeral within the space of a few months. In contrast, however, to the previous occasion, a sizeable crowd of sincere mourners were present at the obsequies and people were arrayed two or three deep around the graveside.

  To my horror I saw that it was intended to bury Harry in a double grave with his late wife, and I whispered to Mr Disvan who was beside me.

  ‘This is appalling. Can’t we do something to prevent it?’

  ‘On what grounds, Mr Oakley?’ he answered with a shrug.

  Once again, as soon as I gave it more than cursory thought, any mention of the truth became obviously impossible.

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ I continued quietly, ‘is how she followed us there. I mean, was she physically there? Did she walk all that way travelling by night maybe? How did she know where we were?’

  ‘The ways of the departed are not like ours, Mr Oakley. They see different things and are subject to different rules.’

  ‘My God!’ I said suddenly—and too loudly, for Father Wiltshire looked up and gave me a reproving glance. ‘Look, the soil on her grave is all disturbed and churned up. She’s been out of there!’

  Disvan attempted to calm me. ‘Not necessarily. The earth on her grave hasn’t had time to settle properly yet, and the digging of Harry’s trench would have disturbed hers anyway.’

  I remained unplacated, however. ‘Will she rest now, do you think?’

  ‘Yes, I would imagine so, Mr Oakley. She got her own way in the end. Harry was made to do as he was told and that was all that ever really mattered to her. He’s back in her power now, so perhaps she’ll be satisfied.’

  I fell silent and the sun seemed to lose its warmth as I pondered how Mary Morton had spent the hours after leaving our world behind, and by what long weary roads she had travelled to the sea and her moment of victory.

  While I was thus lost in thought, the policeman edged his way over to us and discreetly sought our attention.

  ‘You seem out of sorts, Mr Oakley.’

  Mr Disvan answered for me. ‘I believe he is, Stan.’

  ‘And would I be right in saying it’s because you think that the Morton woman’s finally won?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘you would be right.’

  ‘There you are then! Can I tell him, Mr Disvan?’

  Disvan mused for a moment and then nodded his head. The constable turned animatedly to me and whispered in my ear.

  ‘She’s not going to win. Harry is—finally and conclusively and in a fitting manner. We’re not leaving Harry to spend eternity alongside her. We’re going to weigh her down in death the way she weighed Harry down in life, and we’re going to feed her to Harry’s beloved fish in Broadwater Lake.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  He looked left and right before replying, as if he feared eavesdroppers, even though all those present were well disposed Binscombe folk.

  ‘What I mean, Mr Oakley, is an unofficial midnight exhumation party. Are you with us?’

  I looked at Mr Disvan for confirmation of what I thought I’d heard. He coolly returned my gaze from the edge of his eyes.

  ‘It seems reasonable, Mr Oakley,’ he said. ‘She forbade Harry to go fishing and Providence appears prepared to let that be enforced, even from beyond the grave. However, nothing was said that she shouldn’t await judgement day sleeping with the fishes.’

  ONLY ONE CAREFUL OWNER

  ‘Good wood, Albert,’ cried someone as Mr Whiteburgh’s bowl gently kissed the side of the jack on its way past, thereby making the ultimate victory of the Binscombe team seem all the more certain.

  Less demonstrative, but just as enthusiastic, Mr Disvan joined with the round of appreciative applause.

  ‘They’ll not catch us now,’ he confided to me.

  The home Goldenford side appeared to share this view and started to relax the frightening degree of concentration they always brought to this local derby. A few of them went so far as to strike up easygoing conversations with their opponents, probably about the drinking which normally followed the game, and the events of the year since the last one.

  Although I would not have admitted it in present company, I was relatively indifferent to the match’s outcome. My motives for attending had more to do with the idyllic setting and attendant jollities than any burning desire to witness victory. Someone who was observing me rather than the game would have noticed that, for the most part, my attention was devoted to the river which flowed beside the bowling green and to the boggy Lammas lands beyond. For all my years of residence, I had yet to find in myself the professed and fervid Binscombe patriotism of my circle of friends.

  The church clock struck seven. The sun was just setting over its Norman tower and casting a friendly if waning light over the raised ground of the graveyard. Mr Disvan had told me that the vast yews which stood within it had, in their comparative youth, probably provided longbows for the battles of the Hundred Years War. I’d read elsewhere, however, that the best bow staves had been generally imported from Spain. Even so, it was a pleasing notion and so I had kept my sceptical modern theories to myself.

  It seemed to me that the setting could be part of a ‘This England’ calendar scene, and I one of the anonymous archetypal Englishmen within it.

  As very often happened, no sooner had any halfway agreeable idea entered my head than the world somehow instantly intruded to blow the concept asunder. In this particular instance, the world’s emissary was the screech of car brakes and the repeated sounding of a horn.

  Everyone looked up to see that a yellow Ford Fiesta had come to a halt, quite illegally it should be said, on the road that ran parallel to the river and the associated recreation grounds. The highway was some way off and so the owner of the offending vehicle could not be made out.

  ‘Anyone recognise it?’ said the Goldenford Captain, a burly red-faced man with arms like giant hams. Nobody did and so the game continued.

  Obviously frustrated by our lack of response to his signals, the motorist left his car and set off towards us on foot. Another figure, a female one, similarly alighted and followed on at a lesser pace. It seemed their intentions were friendly, for the young man in the lead was waving at us.

  ‘I know who it is,’ said Mr Disvan, s
quinting at the approaching visitors. ‘It’s Trevor Jones and his young lady.’

  ‘Who are they?’ I inquired.

  ‘Don’t you know them? They’re both Binscombe people. Their families have been around here for a long, long time.’

  ‘I don’t recall the name.’

  ‘Possibly not; they’ve both been away at university so you may have missed meeting them.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘We’re very proud of them. As far as I know, they’re the first Binscombe youngsters to go to university, apart from the Tamlyn boy who went to theological college, which isn’t quite the same thing. Also, they started courting before they went away, so they’ve done well to stay together all that time, given the temptations and distractions.’

  ‘I suppose they have.’

  By this time the young couple were almost upon us. Close to, I now recognised them as people I’d seen very occasionally, although never to speak to. The young man, Trevor, as I now knew him to be, appeared bright and personable even if his taste in clothes ran to the somewhat garish. His ‘young lady’, as Mr Disvan quaintly termed her, was as dark haired and dark complexioned as her boyfriend was fair, and seemed as quietly demure as he, by all tokens so far, was not.

  Jones sauntered up, a broad relaxed smile on his face.

  ‘Hello, everyone. Mr Disvan, how are you?’

  The men of Goldenford were not used to even such a mild manifestation of eccentricity as this and looked to Disvan for guidance. Should the stranger be dealt with, or could the game continue?

  ‘It’s okay,’ Mr Disvan announced, ‘he’s known to us.’

  Jones seemed genuinely amazed that anyone should doubt this. ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘carry on.’

  And, with perhaps the merest tokens of disbelief, this they did.

  Young Trevor shook hands with Disvan and was then introduced to me. As eve,r the seemingly irrelevant point of my family’s ancient links with Binscombe was brought up in the same breath as my name. The young lady turned out to be called Tania, Tania Knott, although the apparent intention was that her name should soon become Jones as well. Whereas Trevor’s greeting to me was amiability itself, it struck me that her words of introduction betokened more human warmth behind them.