‘Just for tonight, Chester,’ he told the dog as he headed for the stairs, flashlight shining ahead. ‘Tomorrow you’re on your own, understand? No more howling, no more looking moon-eyed at me. Tomorrow night you stay down here no matter what ruckus you kick up. I’m serious, mutt, you can caterwaul as much as you like, but you’re staying in the kitchen. If I leave you in the hall you’ll be up the stairs, so that’s just not gonna happen. You hear me, Chester?’ He lifted one of the dog’s ears when he made the last remark, but Chester only snuggled further against him.
Gabe had kept his voice low as he chastised the mongrel, but firm enough to let him know he meant business. Halfway across the flagstone floor with Chester’s head nestling in the crook of one arm, the other supporting the dog’s hindquarters as well as directing the flashlight, Gabe suddenly hopped onto one foot.
‘What the hell . . .?’
His foot had splashed into a puddle on the floor. He manoeuvred the flashlight so that he could look down at his feet and, sure enough, there was a small puddle of water there. He must have missed it earlier on his way to the kitchen because he’d been diverted towards the cellar. He also became aware of that now-familiar musty, damp odour that was so prevalent in the cellar: it had invaded the hall itself.
Swinging the light beam up towards the high ceiling, he searched for any damp patches, reasoning that the fierce rain outside had found a way into the attic area (which had not yet been inspected) and was dripping through the floor. The great iron chandelier threw eerie shadows onto the ceiling, like a giant spider’s legs; but there were no wet patches or stains up there.
Still wondering at its cause, Gabe skirted the small pool of water on the floor and made for the stairs, Chester still shivering in his arms. And when he reached the stairs, he came to a halt again.
There was another tiny puddle in the middle of the third step. Another on the small square landing turn.
Avoiding the first stair puddle, he made his way up, stopping once more at the turn. He shone the flashlight up the second, longer flight of stairs.
There seemed to be small puddles on every second or third step. He wondered how he’d missed them on his way down.
8: HOLLOW BAY
They left the dog behind in Crickley Hall because they intended to have lunch in Hollow Bay’s pub/restaurant (the previous week, when Gabe and Vern had taken a break from moving furniture and other essential items into Crickley Hall, they had sampled Barnaby Inn’s fare and Gabe highly recommended it; he also favoured the local brew) and they didn’t know the management’s policy regarding customers bringing pets into the establishment.
The inn was certainly quaint, with its white walls, thatched roof, leaded windows and outside hanging lamps that were lit due to the day’s dusk-like gloom. It would certainly have been a tourist magnet had the indigenous population not been so stranger-shy; the locals seemed to set more store in privacy than financial gain for, although it was late in the season and the weather was foul, there should have been more people on the two streets of the village than there were today – those few they did meet along the ‘promenade’ were certainly not holidaymakers, to judge by their sensible if dour attire.
Although the few shops and many of the houses looked pleasant enough in their pastel pinks and blues, the majority of them white-fronted, on closer inspection it could be noticed that the paintwork was flaky and cracked in places, the decoration tired and weather-worn, the woodwork chipped. Most windows were dark and uninviting, as if concealing their tenants, only one or two orange with the glows of autumn hearth fires. Rainwater gushed along gutters and pooled round overworked drains, sodden October leaves piling into heaps that blocked the gratings. The single teashop – perhaps the village’s only deference to the sightseer – that Gabe and his family passed on their journey to the inn seemed dingy and unappealing, its fluorescent lighting too harsh, and drab lace half-curtains hung from a tarnished brass rail across the long window-front as if privacy was more important than invitation.
Fortunately, the Barnaby Inn, with its smoky-yellow walls and broad, sturdy posts rising to a low, beamed ceiling, a roaring log fire in the large inglenook fireplace at one end of the room, had proved a welcome retreat from the dismal mood of the harbour village itself ( possibly the downpour negatively influenced their judgement).
Eve had at least tried to convince herself that overcast skies and constant fall of chilled rain, together with the great steel-grey expanse of the Bristol Channel whose waters lapped at the harbour wall, all conspired to render the village joyless and somehow, if it could be said of a place, sullen. Or was her own morbid depression tainting everything she saw and felt?
The only thing that slightly spoilt the pub’s welcoming atmosphere was the hard stares they received from the customers inside when the family bustled in, dripping water onto the rubber entrance mat and voicing their relief to be out of the rain. They were boldly watched as Gabe guided Eve and the girls to a cushioned benchseat against a wall, a long wooden table between it and two hard-backed chairs.
‘We don’t loik strangers ’roind ere,’ Gabe whispered to Eve in an awful version of the West Country accent as he pulled out one of the chairs for her. At least she smiled when she shushed him.
The other customers returned to their conversations and brews, little warmth or further interest coming from them.
However, the barmaid, who had short chestnut-coloured hair and a dazzling smile, was courteous and friendly as she reeled off the two specials of the day to them from her position behind the bar, and the food, when it arrived, was both tasty and abundant. Even Loren, who was a picky eater at the best of times and who had groaned when the huge plate of sea bass with chips and peas was placed in front of her, finished nearly every last morsel. The sea air and the long walk down to the village were obviously doing wonders for her appetite, Eve thought to herself, pleased by the transition. Gabe relished the local brew again (he and Vern had sunk several pints of Tawny Bitter between them on their earlier visit, the hard graft of lifting and unloading stuff back at Crickley Hall engendering a special kind of thirst), while Eve stuck to tonic water (she used to enjoy good wines, but hadn’t touched alcohol in almost a year), the girls orange and lemonade mixed (Loren’s idea of a sophisticated drink, Cally copying her big sister).
When Gabe returned to the bar for a refill and another tonic for Eve, a thickset man with a florid face and greying hair appeared from a doorway behind the counter. He had the air of a landlord or manager and it was he who served Gabe.
‘Passin’ through, is it?’ the man asked conversationally as he drew the pint.
‘Uh-uh, I’m working in these parts for a short while, coupla months mebbe,’ Gabe replied. ‘Staying up at Crickley Hall.’
The beer flowed over the lip of the glass into a hidden sink below the bar as the man stared at him.
Wait a bit, Gabe thought. I’ve seen this movie. Isn’t this where the ruddy-faced local warns him to keep clear of the old house up there on the hill? ‘Strange things ’appen up there at the ’all.’
But the barman merely pushed back the pump and righted the glass. He smiled pleasantly as he placed the ale on the bar mat in front of Gabe and said, ‘Dreadful weather we’re havin’ lately. Must have rained for three weeks solid now. Hope it don’t spoil yer stay.’
‘We’ll be keeping ourselves pretty busy,’ Gabe told him as he waited for the tonic. ‘My daughter starts at the local school Monday.’ The ‘local’ school was several miles away in the nearest town of Merrybridge.
Pouring half the tonic water into a fresh glass and leaving the rest in the bottle, which he stood beside it, the barman nodded. ‘That’ll be Merrybridge Middle School, will it? She’ll be all right there. Most of the village kids go to the Merry Middle. Picked up by bus from the main street. S’pect the driver will make a stop at Crickley Hall for yer daughter, no problem for him. Frank’s one of my regulars so I’ll mention it when he comes in tonight. The schoo
l will have to make the formal arrangement regarding payment and insurance, but that’s easily done.’
‘Thanks, I’d be grateful. I’m taking her in myself the first morning but I’ll fix it with the school. I need to go into Ilfracombe anyway.’
‘And what about the little ’un?’
‘She’s only five. My wife’ll take care of her while we’re down here.’ Gabe knew Eve would teach Cally the basics of reading and writing far more strictly than any nursery school.
As the other man took the money for the drinks and food from Gabe, he remarked, ‘Big place, that Crickley Hall. Yer’ll be rattlin’ around in it.’
‘I bet it’ll be cold, too, in this weather.’ This came from the attractive chestnut-haired barmaid, who had come back from serving a customer at the far end of the bar. Her Devonian burr was barely noticeable; if anything, her accent was more south London than West Country. ‘It’ll be damp. All those old places are.’
‘Yeah, I found puddles on the stairs last night and I’m not sure how they got there,’ Gabe replied. ‘Maybe from a loose window frame. There’s a big window over the stairs. All gone this morning, though, not even damp patches left behind.’
‘You wait ’til there’s a proper storm. Then you’ll know about it. You’ve probably got a leaky roof too.’ The girl gave a brief mock shiver.
The barman shrugged. ‘Owner’s not lived there fer years and them that rented it never stayed long.’
Oh-oh, Gabe said to himself wryly, here it comes. Fifty years ago a mad axeman chopped up his family and hid the body parts all over the house, or at the turn of the last century the wealthy owner of Crickley Hall, old Charlie Crickley himself, forbade his daughter to marry the local ratcatcher and she hanged herself in the cellar.
But the bartender went on: ‘That’s why the place has been so neglected and why yer gettin’ yer leaks.’
‘I thought the old guy, Percy – Percy Judd? – took care of the house.’
The other man gave him a rueful grin. ‘Percy’s a bit ancient to do much upkeep. That’s why the estate manager pays two ladies from the village to go in and give it a good dusting once a month. No, Percy can’t do a lot on his own nowadays. To be honest wiv yer, he’s only kept on out of kindness. Has he been knocking on yer door yet?’
‘Yesterday, soon after we arrived. Just how old is he?’
The barman’s forehead creased as he took a moment to think. He scratched his chin. ‘Oh, he must be . . . well, I don’t know for sure, but he’s got to be nearly eighty by now. Served overseas wiv the army at the end of the last world war, so he must be getting on a bit.’
Gabe whistled softly through his teeth. ‘And he’s still working?’
‘Like I say, as a kindness. No one likes to sack him, y’see. He helps out at the church en’ all, but nothing too heavy, just tending the churchyard, collectin’ hymn books after Mass, that sort of thing. He’s a dear old chap, set in his ways, though, determined like. Won’t retire no matter how many times it’s been suggested. He’s harmless – won’t give yer no bother.’
‘He’s sweet,’ chimed in the barmaid.
‘Customer wants serving, Frannie.’ The barman gave a nod towards a customer waiting further down, two empty glasses before him on the counter. Giving Gabe one final smile, Frannie went off to take the customer’s order.
The barman leaned one elbow on the bar. ‘I’m the landlord of the Barnaby,’ he told Gabe, ‘and anything yer want to know about the area, just drop by and I’ll try to oblige. If I’m not around, my wife, Vera, or our Frannie will be.’
Warmed by the man’s friendliness, Gabe smiled. ‘That’s kind of you. I guess we’ll be okay.’
‘Well, don’t hesitate. We could do with some new faces around ’ere. Good luck to you and yer family, Mr . . .?’
‘Gabe Caleigh.’ Gabe extended a hand across the beer mat and the landlord shook it.
‘Sam Pennelly’s me name. Enjoy yer stay, Mr Caleigh. Yer in a beautiful spot up there in the gorge.’
Gabe poured the rest of the tonic into its glass and was about to turn away, both glasses in his hands, when a thought struck him. ‘Out of interest, how did Devil’s Cleave get its name? It’s kinda dark for such a wonderful place.’
Now the landlord had both elbows on the bartop as he leaned forward as if to speak confidentially. ‘Centuries ago,’ he said, his broad face serious, his voice husky, ‘the Devil, hisself, tried to cut his way inland from the sea to flood all the villages hereabouts. First he took a bite out of the cliffs and that’s how Hollow Bay came to be. Years of land erosion have widened the bay, of course. Anyway, they say after he took his first bite he attempted to gnaw his way up to the moors, but his teeth eventually got worn down to the gums and he couldn’t get no further so, frustrated like, he sloped off back to sea swearing to have his revenge one day. And he did, but I’ll leave that for another day, Mr Caleigh.’
The landlord straightened up and Gabe grinned at him, then froze the grin as he realized Pennelly’s expression remained serious. For a beat or two there was a silence between the two men and Gabe was bemused.
Then the other man chuckled, his face breaking into a broad, yellow-toothed smile.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to get a rise from yer,’ the landlord apologized, continuing to smile, ‘but that’s how the tale goes. There’s a lot of nonsense legends in these parts and they make good conversations round a roaring fire on winter nights.’ He had one last chuckle before saying, ‘Nice to meet you and your family, Mr Caleigh. You’re always welcome at the Barnaby, so don’t you stay away. You take good care of those girls of yours, now – all three of ’em I mean.’
Pennelly strolled off to talk to some customers at the other end of the bar and Gabe brought the drinks back to the table.
Eve looked up at him as he placed the glass before her. ‘You seemed to be having a nice chat,’ she said, and it was really a question: what were they talking about?
Gabe took his seat. ‘Yeah, nice people. But I think the guy was twisting my head at the end.’ He supped his beer.
‘How did the guy twist your head, Daddy?’ asked Cally, taking her lips from the straw she was using.
‘Oh, he was just telling me how Hollow Bay and the ravine were made.’
‘Gorge,’ corrected Loren, who liked her father to speak proper English on occasion (she did this not out of embarrassment but because she genuinely thought she was being helpful, even though all her friends thought his American accent was cool).
‘Tell us how, please,’ Cally demanded noisily draining the last of her drink.
Gabe lowered his own voice as he told them the tale of how Hollow Bay and Devil’s Cleave got their names.
9: THE PROJECT
‘See it out there?’
Hunched in his coat against the steady drizzle, Gabe pointed over the stone harbour wall and Eve and the girls followed his direction. Loren and Cally wore yellow, hooded plastic macs while Eve had on her parka, deep blue in colour and drawn in at the waist to give it shape. While she and the girls had the hoods of their coats up, Gabe had stuffed his woollen beanie hat into one of his reefer jacket’s pockets, because sometimes he enjoyed the feel of rain or wind on his face and head. His hair was already darkened by the hard rain, but his only concession to the weather was to pull his coat collar up round his neck.
He was pointing at a metal column topped by a square-shaped box that rose from the sea like a sentinel just over two miles from the harbour boundary. A scarcely visible ladder ran down its length into the choppy waters.
‘How can you fit in there, Daddy?’ asked Cally peering up from beneath her hood. ‘It’s very tiny.’
Gabe grinned. ‘It’s bigger than it looks. That’s where I’ll probably be next week, checking it out.’
‘It’s too far to swim,’ she said, frowning.
What they couldn’t see was the important submerged part of the structure, two giant twin rotors resembling aircraft propeller blades att
ached to either side of a steel monopile which was set into a deep hole drilled into the seabed. Essentially it was a brilliantly conceived device for harnessing power from the sea itself, using tidal flows to turn the rotors.
It was situated where full advantage could be taken of the Bristol Channel’s high tidal current velocities; because sea water was eight hundred times more dense than air, quite slow velocities of water could generate significantly more energy than whole crops of surface windmills, and with considerably more regularity and predictability. Gabe’s company APCU Engineering (UK) was but one of a consortium of varied companies involved in the production and financing of the prototype, with the UK’s DTI and European Commission also partly funding and supporting the enterprise. The parent company, whose invention this was, was aptly named Seapower. The end view was to create whole lines of such marine turbines just off the coast of countries and continents around the world, most of them linked to national grids.
However, as cost efficient and energy productive as these marine current turbines would be, there was a downside, and this was one of the reasons APCU’s engineering skills had been sought for the prototype. Maintenance and repairs were, to say the least, challenging, and APCU’s engineers had suggested that if the structure’s rotors and drive chain could be raised above the waterline when necessary, then maintenance and repair could far more easily be carried out working from a surface vessel. Gabe, who many times in the past had helped design and worked on offshore oil rigs, had been sent to Devon to replace a colleague who had had to resign from the project for health reasons. The temporary assignment was to assist in solving the various but crucial technical problems involved in such an operation.
Loren tugged at his elbow. ‘Dad, won’t it be awful working out there all day? What if there’s a storm?’