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‘I’ve got my heels on.’
‘It’s less than a mile. Grab your bags.’ I take out my suitcase from the boot and pull up the handle. Shelley has brought two huge holdalls which she places on each shoulder, like ballast balloons. She follows obediently as I make for the harbour. The journey is more complicated than I had anticipated. The road is crowded with people waiting for the train or trying to get to the harbour and it is a struggle to make our way through. Cars beep incessantly and, as we approach the car park, we can see a closely packed throng reaching all the way to the quayside and along to the main docks. The crowd is thinner on our side of the road, but it’s still an effort to push our way against the tide of people heading for the station. The mood is unpleasant; there are shouts and scuffles and across the way I can see a couple of big blokes sizing up for a fight. I want to get to the boat as soon as possible, but every few minutes I’m stopped by Shelley wailing for me to slow down, pleading for help with her bags
‘I did suggest one bag only,’ I say when she catches up.
‘I need them both.’
I want to suggest that she dumps one but she has a face that suggests tears are imminent and an argument will only slow us down. There’s nothing for it but to take one of hers and keep moving forward. It is hard work, harder as we arrive at the quay, where we are pressed in on every side, with some people heading in the direction of the station, others towards the harbour in the hope that the one ferry will return and rescue them. I push a path through the wall of bodies, conscious that all it would take would be for one trip and we’d be trampled on. At last we make it through to the quayside where I sit down in the wall to catch my breath. Shelley throws her bag down with relief, and then gazes past me towards the quayside. ‘Is there enough water?’
I turn round. The tide is going out. Already the mooring chains are half exposed to show their green seaweed and barnacle coverings. The waves lap against an edge of dirty brown sand which is filled with small wading birds searching for food. It should be just about deep enough to depart but then I realize something else. There isn’t a single yacht or speedboat left. Not one. All that remains are a few battered rowing boats that wouldn’t make it further than the harbour wall. Where is my boat? Where is my fucking boat? Even though the evidence is in front of me, I still can’t accept it. I walk over to mooring nineteen where Bob the fisherman was supposed to meet me. There is nobody there, and the mooring chain leads nowhere.
‘Was it definitely here?’ says Shelley. ‘Not round the corner?’
‘Don’t be stupid, Shells. This is where they keep the private boats. The docks are for commercial vessels’
‘Perhaps he moved it.’
‘Shit,’ I say. ‘Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.’ A seagull flies overhead, depositing it’s droppings on my shoulder as it passes. Shelley laughs.
‘It’s not funny!’ I’m furious, but she cannot stop giggling, until I shout at her, ‘Shut the fuck up, will you?’
‘It was just the timing.’ She gets a tissue out of her bag and removes the worst of the gloopy mess off my T-shirt. It leaves behind a white smeary stain. I ring the owner, no answer. I send him a text. No answer. Then another, which finally gets a response. Sorry – boat’s been sold. Bob waited till two thirty but had to leave; he sold it to someone else. Hope you can find another.
What about my refund, arsehole? I text back, but he doesn’t reply. Fucker probably thinks I’m done for, and he might as well pocket my £500. He doesn’t know what’s coming for him. When I get back to London, as I definitely will, I’ll take him to the cleaners. No one gets the better of Harry Edwards, no one.
‘What are we going to do?’ Oh, Shelley. Why are you so young? You’re beautiful and sweet but not much good in a crisis. ‘Give me a moment to think.’ I look around the harbour. There are thousands of people between here and the station, still thinking they might get a space on a train, or a ferry. I can’t see it myself, there are too many of us. There is no point hanging about here.
‘What are we going to do?’ wails Shelley again.
‘Ssh, I’m thinking.’
I check the news. The roads are as clogged as I thought they would be. There’s also no point attempting to travel north. Clearly not worth taking a risk on the internet again, but surely not every boat will have gone? Surely, in some little cove somewhere, someone keeps a boat for their occasional trips to Cornwall. Some lucky bastard who decided not to come down this weekend will have left us a means of escape that’s just waiting for us to collect it. All we have to do is explore the bays between here and St Ives. Surely there will be something for us somewhere …?
‘We’ll look for another one,’ I say.
‘Where?’
‘In a mooring somewhere. Come on, Shells.’
‘Alison’s just texted, asking if we’re OK.’
Alison is Shelley’s big sister. She’s not my biggest fan, nor I, hers. She thinks I’m not good enough for Shells; it will give me great pleasure to remind her in future that without me her sister would have drowned.. ‘Tell her we’re fine, we’ve got a plan,’ I say. Thinking of sisters, I am reminded of mine. Should I text Val, let her know what’s going on? Don’t be stupid Harry. She doesn’t even know we’re here. Why worry her? Best to let her know when we’re safe out the other side, when I can brag about my brilliant survival skills.
We force our way back through the swell of people, a deeply unpleasant experience. Sweaty bodies push against us, the smell of panic and fear. I can feel Shelley stumbling in my wake, but I can’t hold her in this crowd, we both have to make our way through, until, eventually, we pass the station and are back on the road again.
It takes nearly an hour to reach the car, place our bags back in the boot and set off again. We crawl back along the way we’ve walked, but once we’re past the quay the road is clear and I’m back in control. We’re not like the hopeless hordes in Penzance, heading nowhere. We’ve got a plan and it’s a good one.
We start at Mousehole, but it’s just like Penzance. A handful of rowing boats are left in the quay. I consider whether it’s worth trying one of them, but they just don’t look seaworthy enough and I’m definitely not a strong enough rower. I look at the lifeboat station, but that too is gone; according to Twitter they’ve taken a load of people up north to safety. Shame we didn’t get here sooner. Still, I refuse to be deterred. There’s plenty of places along the coast; I’m sure we’ll find something. It’s just a matter of persistence, that’s all. We climb back into the car and drive on.
The third bay reveals nothing, either. Shit. I don’t say anything to Shelley, but my heart sinks, and for the first time I experience a flutter of doubt. I’m getting tired and hungry. I wish I’d told her to pack some food, though to be honest she really should have thought of it. After all, I’ve been doing everything else. We drive on. I am trying not feel a bit sorry for myself, when I spot a sign for Dowetha and my spirits rise again. Surely, this time we’ll find something? I put my foot on the accelerator and speed in the direction of the beach.
Shelley (#u6801ab08-7652-56dc-8acf-7838d25b6a40)
Harry is everything to me.
It’s been that way for years. I adore him.
I’d do anything for him, follow him anywhere …
And yet, lately, I have found myself asking myself whether any of this is true any more. Harry’s been my life for so long that I’ve never questioned him until lately. In the beginning, he seemed so thoughtful and sensitive. I was his special girl, his fair lady, his queen. He always checked how I was and made sure no harm would come to me. Yet today, when I’m frightened, really, really, frightened, it’s like he hasn’t even noticed. I know he’s trying to get us out of here, and maybe he’s right that a boat is the answer. But it wouldn’t hurt to ask me how I’m feeling, surely? He’s not even asked my opinion, just assumed he knows best. When I do try and say anything, he just sighs and speaks over me. It’s infuriating, insulting and upsetting all at once. But I still stagger after him in my five-inch stilettos, holiday bags balanced on shoulders, because, after all, what else can I do?
The trouble is Harry is always so sure he is right – there’s never any room for doubt. I suppose that’s what attracted me to him in the first place – that sense of certainty. I love Dad, of course I do, but he’s got this annoying habit of always seeing the other point of view, always weighing up one side against the other. Which was a bit wearing for a teenager looking for definitive answers. I think that’s why Harry’s absolute conviction was so attractive. Here was someone who knew exactly what he was doing, what he thought about everything. A real man, who understood what was what. The fact that he had money and was prepared to share it just added to the allure.
I wasn’t even supposed to be in the bar that night. I’d only gone because Liv reckoned we could get in if we had fake ID and I was trying to prove her wrong – and because I’d just had a row with Dad about my lack of GCSE revision. It was unusual for me to be so daring, to pretend to be at Liv’s when we were outside the nightclub hoping our false documents would get us inside. I was astonished that they did and even more so that it was so easy to pretend to be eighteen with all the men at the bar slavering over us, all eager to buy us a drink. Harry was the one who stood out, though. Tall white, muscular, he had something about him – a toughness, a sense he got what he wanted – that I found instantly appealing. Even the age difference didn’t bother me – it made him seem trustworthy. He offered us cocktails and treated us like grown-ups. It was so nice to be taken seriously for once; Dad and Alison always treated me like a kid. I lapped it up.
He invited us both back and we drank prosecco and ate canapés on his balcony. He talked about his hotel business, all the celebrities he’d had stay. It all seemed so glamorous and exciting. Liv was worried he might be a creep, but he didn’t try it on, and when I said it was time we went, he ordered a cab for us, kissed me on the cheek. So, of course, I gave him my number. I didn’t really expect him to call because nothing like that ever happened to me. But he did, and he took me to a posh restaurant and told me he thought I was beautiful and asked me out. I had to confess about my age, then, and he was perfectly lovely about it. He said he thought that I was very mature for my age – he’d assumed I was twenty at least. For the first time in years I felt that I really mattered. It wasn’t that Alison and Dad didn’t love me, or I, them, but they were so close after Mum died that sometimes I felt a bit shut out. Harry said I was the centre of his universe and for a long while that held true and he was everything I needed.
But lately, it’s all felt a bit wrong. Ever since I moved in, it’s begun to feel like he’s taken me for granted, that I’m not as important as I once was, that other things – work, mates, TV – come higher on his list. Take this holiday, for example. He’s promised me a holiday for ever. He’s had business trips to Rome and Paris, looking into setting up there, but he’s never taken me, even though I begged him. He said I’d only be bored, as he would be working, but one of these days we’d do it properly, do New York, maybe. But that’s never happened. We only came down here because he was meeting some potential investors in Penzance. He said that Cornwall was much nicer than New York anyway and we’d avoid jetlag. He only had a few work meetings, he said, and after they were done we could go to the beach. But the meetings lasted all day and in the evening he went drinking, leaving me to mooch around the cottage on my own.
It hasn’t all been bad. The cottage was pretty enough, it was rather like the house in Yorkshire, where we lived before Mum died. So even though I was a bit lonely, I felt quite at home. I watched my way through lots of box sets, and once or twice I got the bus into town to have a spa. On the second day, I found that the cupboard door in the back sitting room actually led into a small music room. There was a piano and piles of sheet music, including a bunch of folk songs that I used to sing with Dad. It had been years since I’d sung them, but since there wasn’t anything else to do, I thought I might as well give it a go. Though my voice was a bit rusty at first, the old tunes soon came back, reminding me of happier times – Dad and I performing for Alison and Mum in the days before her illness, when we were a proper family. I’d forgotten how much I loved singing with him, and how content the four of us were just to be together. We never seemed to hang out like that after her death, I think we all missed her too much.
But even rediscovering music couldn’t make up for the fact that I was alone for most of the week. And there was no way I could tell Harry about it. He’d only have laughed. Folk music is so not his thing. So as the week went on we just got further and further apart until last night, when I begged him to spend some time with me. He was clearly feeling a bit bad, because he said sorry and promised that today we’d do something together, Land’s End, sit on the beach, cream tea. My kind of day. Perhaps his negotiations had really completed, or perhaps he just simply wanted sex. Whatever the reason, he seemed genuinely apologetic that he’s neglected me, promised today would be perfect and we had dinner on the terrace. Afterwards, when we made love out in the garden, among the glow-worms, he called me his special girl, his lady, his queen. He was as sweet and as kind as he was right at the beginning and I slept well and woke full of hope that we’d just been going through a bad patch and today would put us back on the right track.
I was so happy this morning as we had a leisurely breakfast and began to get ready for our trip. It was only when we were about to leave that we heard the horrible news. Ever since, Harry has been obsessed with finding a boat. It’s a good thing, of course it’s a good thing, if it ensures our survival, but I can’t help feeling that he has set himself an impossible task. I don’t want to think what that might mean, and I haven’t expressed the thought out loud, but what are the chances, really? Was it any surprise that all the boats in Penzance had gone? That the person on the internet sold the boat to someone else? Hasn’t Harry been saying for years it’s a dog-eat-dog world? Why would it be any different for him? I understand his fury at being let down, but it’s astonishing that he didn’t see it coming, really. So, when a bird shat on him, I couldn’t help laughing out loud. I suppose it wasn’t kind of me, but, honestly, it’s the only funny thing to have happened today. Because when I let the thought in, that Harry might be wrong, that there might not be a boat to find, I am left with the inescapable conclusion that I’m about to die because my boyfriend was too mean to take me to New York. It isn’t fair. I am way too young. I haven’t even begun to live.
We’ve been trailing through the bays ever since that lost boat of Penzance. The treacherous thought that Harry is wrong has grown with every failure to discover an alternative. And the unfairness of it, the absolute bitter unfairness of it, keeps sweeping over me. I am twenty years old. All I have done with my life is meet Harry and work as a nanny for two years. I will never go to America, never go to Paris where I always fantasized that Harry might propose, never work out what my life could be about. I’ll die without having amounted to anything very much.
All this is running through my head, and Harry still hasn’t asked me, hasn’t even stopped to wonder why I am veering from tears to anger so quickly. Apart from a snarky query as to whether I’ve got women’s problems, he is oblivious to my feelings. He is too focussed on his personal mission, fulfilling his own personal myth that he will be the hero to save the day. I want to believe in him, but I’ve been teetering on the brink of disbelief since Penzance, and if there’s nothing at the next cove, I really don’t think I can go on any more. If he would only stop for a moment, talk to me, give me a hug, tell me that it will be all right, that he’s with me and he’ll take care of me right to the very end. Perhaps, if he did that, I might be prepared to stick with it. But he seems incapable of doing anything other than drive to the next bay and the next.
So here we are, parking the car at the top of another beach. To my surprise, we are not the only ones there. An old Ford Fiesta, a hatchback and a mini that has seen better days are already here.
‘Aye, aye,’ says Harry, ‘We might be on to something – others might have had the same idea.’ I’d like to think he is right, but before we are halfway down the path, I can see there is no hope here. The beach is too shallow for a jetty and there’s no sign of any boats. What I do see, however, is a small group of people gathered by two tent, and a campfire. When Harry spots them, he stops, probably thinking there’s no point continuing. But I am curious, so I walk on. I wonder who they are and what they are doing here, looking so relaxed and carefree, considering the circumstances. It crosses my mind that they don’t realize what is happening, that we should warn them.
‘Where are you going?’ asks Harry.
‘To check if they are OK.’
‘We need to keep moving.’
‘I’m tired. I want to rest for a bit. And they might have food.’ I think at first that he’s going to leave, but after a moment he follows behind. Perhaps he’s curious, too. Or hungry, more like.
My stilettos are useless in the soft sand, so I discard them at the top of the beach and swing them in my hand. The sand between my toes is warm, reminding me of childhood holidays, happier days. It’s a long time since I’ve walked barefoot in the sand. I’d forgotten how I always enjoyed this sensation. I reach the group – a couple of men and women in their twenties and thirties and an older woman in her sixties. She shouldn’t fit in, but she looks relaxed, sitting in a chair, swigging coke from a bottle, her feet spread out in the sand. Perhaps she’s someone’s mother.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask as I reach them.
The man with curly hair says, ‘We’ve worked out we can’t get away. So we’ve decided to sit it out. Enjoy the time we have left.’
‘Join us,’ says the young black woman. ‘We’ve plenty of food and wine.’ Harry rolls his eyes, I can see him thinking bunch of hippies, but I’m intrigued.
‘We can stay, can’t we, Harry?’ He looks like he’s about to walk off, but he nods. ‘For a while.’
I sit down on the blanket, introduce myself and take the offered glass of wine. For the first time in eight hours I breathe deeply. I sip the wine and look at the sea. Tomorrow, if we don’t make it out, it will consume us, but at this moment the beach, in the pink and blue light at the end of the day, seems to be the most beautiful place in the world.
Facebook Messenger
To: Seren Lovelace
6.30 p.m.
Have you seen this Facebook page everyone’s talking about? People gathered on Dowetha Beach. The hair’s different but that’s Penny, isn’t it? Andy.
To: Andy Jones
God. I think you’re right. S.
BBC Breaking News 6.45 p.m.
… Downing Street confirms that the Natural Disaster Early Warning Unit, cancelled due to government funding cuts could have identified the problem sooner. Senior volcanologist claims lives will be lost because of it. More to follow …
Facebook
Dowetha Live
30 August 6.50 p.m.
Image: Group selfie, four women, three men, sitting round a campfire.
Welcome to Dowetha Live.
We’re down in Cornwall and we don’t think we can get out in time. So we’re staying here, to enjoy the time we have left.
It’s beautiful on this beach. We’re going to share photos and thoughts as the night goes on. But we know it won’t be easy. We could do with some help, so please leave encouraging thoughts below.
Word of warning. Trolls not welcome. Your comments will be deleted and you will be blocked.
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Sue Hastings. I can’t even … Wow. You’re amazingly brave. Sending love and thoughts.
Alec Howes. Hope you find friendship and comfort tonight. Solidarity.
2 mins
Salaam Mosque. The community of the Salaam Mosque will be praying for you throughout our daily prayers. We are with you in your sadness and fear. Inshallah you shall find hope and generosity in these last hours. Love and Peace. x
10 mins
Facebook
Poppy Armstrong
30 August 7.00 p.m.
It is six hours since I last posted. Six hours! I am overwhelmed by the warmth of your messages, and for your concern for me. Thank you. I’m afraid I cannot answer everyone so please accept this general post instead. The most important thing to tell you is that I am no longer alone. There are several of us now. Some came by chance, looking for sea air. Some in response to my message. Some because they have run out of places to go. And despite what is to come, Dowetha has served up its best for us today. Strong winds, and bright sunshine, made for a perfect surf this afternoon, followed by an invigorating swim. The air has stilled since and now the water is calm. The sun is setting, sending us red beams across the water, a final reminder of the beauty of our days, before the onset of darkness. Pale blue lingers in the sky – soon it will be replaced by blackness of night as the stars rise to shine on us for the last time
It is still hard to imagine it as we’ve sipped our beer or wine and nibbling salt and vinegar crisps, waiting for food to cook on the barbecue. Hard to face the fact of our deaths when we feel so alive in the warm glow of day’s end. Hard to realize this is the last time any of us will listen to the soft splash of the waves on the shore – the sound of the sea moving back and forth, back and forth. Today has been like any of the other summer days I have spent here, surfing, swimming, sunbathing. It’s been just another summer day except for the knowledge that a volcano 2,000 miles way is about to collapse. That our fates were decided by cracks that appeared in its surface long before most of us were even born.
We have had our fair share of complaints sitting here, about the unfairness of it all. If the scientists had not made such a terrible mistake, if we hadn’t moved here to escape the smoggy dangerous city, if only we’d gone to visit friends as we’d planned … If, if, if … we’d be watching on TV like the rest of the horrified nation, instead of sitting here, with the cooling sand slipping between our toes, as the mournful gulls circle above us.
We keep wondering whether we were wrong to stay. Perhaps some on the road will make it in time. But those who tried, report sitting in solid traffic as cheese sandwiches congealed and engines overheated. They carried on until the point at which it was clear they would not be moving any further; turned round and ended up here, lured by the open air, sea, the promise of company.
I suppose we could still go home. Bolt the door, draw the curtains, and hide under the duvet. We could spend the time watching box sets of Star Trek or Friends, The Sopranos or House, Anything that helped us while away the time and pretend our world is not about to end.
And the wave will come for us wherever we are, and whatever we are doing. So I am glad we are here to face it. Tomorrow morning, nine hours after the collapse of Cumbre Viejo, the sea will draw in its waters with the deepest of breaths. It will retreat far down the ocean bed, revealing the inhabitants of the sea bed – bass, cockles, mussels, crabs and snails – exposed for a moment to the air. And we will know, then, that the wave is coming for us. A thousand feet of water racing towards us, condemning us to death.
It is still hard to imagine it, sitting here on this perfect summer night, the sun departed, the first stars beginning to light the darkening sky, that tomorrow this will all be gone. We will all be gone. So we try not to. Instead we will sit by the campfire, telling each other the stories of our lives. Hands held in the darkness. Offering comfort in the face of what is to come.
The night will pass slowly. Watch with us if you can. When morning comes, we will be gone
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Five other comments
Jake Marsden Silly bitch. You should have left. You deserve to drown
Alice Evans It’s very slow now. We’re hoping it will improve when we hit the dual carriageway. Singing silly songs to keep our spirits up . Glad you are not alone x
10 mins
Beverley Lewis Oh Poppy, you amaze as always. Will text you, perhaps we could chat?
3 mins
Finn Matthews. Lots of love, and ignore the trolls
2 min
COMPLINE (#ulink_a2fc9e2a-62c2-5a71-b3c6-35f52c7fbc5d)
Poppy (#ulink_03c30a51-3fdf-561b-8658-8161e258657a)
The first wave of nausea hits me when I finish my post. I have managed, so far, not to think too much about tomorrow, but as I watch the red sun moving towards the horizon it occurs to me that this will be my last sunset. I am suddenly very aware of the thump of my heart, a heart that beats faster the more I think about it. Below me, I can see the glow of the campfire, and hear the murmur of voices above the swish, swish, swish of the waves, the squawks of sea birds. I should feel peaceful sitting here watching Venus rise in the pale blue sky, surrounded by the warmth that still lingers now the wind has died down. On an ordinary evening I would be feeling calm, happy, relaxed.
But this is not an ordinary evening. Now I am alone, I am hit with the full force of that. Nothing is typical tonight. My chest tightens and my breathing quickens. I try to focus on the sound of the waves, the rhythm of the water moving in and out. But it only serves to remind me of the wave that is to come. Breathe deep, I tell myself, breathe deep, but all I do is gulp the air so fast I cannot breathe. My vision blurs. I gasp and I gasp and I gasp – I am drowning in my fear. I cannot make it stop. The sickness builds up inside me until, all of a sudden, I cannot hold it in. I turn around in time to throw up in the bin behind me.
Throwing up helps. I breathe a little deeper, and then deeper still. Presently, I find I am able to stand up. My legs are shaking, but they are strong enough to take me to the clubhouse toilets where I wash my face and rinse my mouth. I gaze at myself in the mirror. I don’t look too bad, considering … I don’t let myself finish the sentence. I need to compose myself before I go back to the others. I don’t want them to see me reduced like this. I invited them so I wouldn’t be alone tonight, but now they are here I find myself wanting to be the person who holds it all together. I am not quite sure why. Perhaps I want to be seen as strong, because generally I am not. Or perhaps I am just seeking redemption. My reflection stares back at me, as it reasserts the deceptive mask of calm, the face that says all is well. It’s been a while since I’ve had to use this trick; I’m a little unsettled by how easy the habit re-establishes itself. I check myself in the mirror again. I look fine. It is time to go back.
