Open Writing

The next speaker was a young boy, Geoffrey Sayers from Blakeney, who, with the support of his parents in the audience, was keen to tell his experience of the flood.

“On January 31 four other boys and me, with home-made wooden swords and dustbin lids as shields, were pretending we had routed the enemy and were chasing them down High Street. When we reached the place where the buildings open out we met the wind. It slowed our running, first to a walk, then to a stagger. Eventually we were weaving from one side of the street to the other, holding onto vans to stay upright.

“We struggled up onto Mariner’s Hill. We had been wearing gas masks. When we took them off the wind and spray was so painful as it gusted into our eyes that we had to keep them closed or turn away. Without our gas masks on we could not see.

"We struggled to the lip of the hill. One of us launched a dustbin lid into the wind. It hung there momentarily, then it was snatched away as though it was no more than a leaf. Over the trees it went, disappearing from sight. We were crouching, clutching at handfuls of grass to avoid being blown away like the lid.

"Eventually I set off with another boy who lived near me, down the hill, keeping close to the old coal barns on the west side of the street to avoid the wind. When we reached Quay Corner we met its full fury. It was not possible to walk against it.

“We crawled across the road on our hands and knees. Reaching the wooden railings that went round the quayside, we pulled ourselves on to our feet, and clung onto them for dear life. Clearly, we could not go home the way we intended. Even returning the way we had come might see us blown flat on our faces. Again we went on all fours to try a different route, and we made it home.

“That evening my mother and me lugged coal up the road to the new council houses in Queen’s Close. The tide had reached the bottom of Westgate Street. We were gone for not much more than twenty minutes, but when we got back home water was running into out yard. My mother and I began taking everything we could carry upstairs. It was not long before water came trickling under the front door of our cottage.

"My grandmother stood in the fireplace, holding up her skirts, enveloped in clouds of steam as the water put the fire out. The water was three or four inches deep across the floor. Then there came a knock at the door. “Are you all right Jane?” It was Stratton Long, a neighbour.

“Yis my booty, we’re alright” grandmother replied.

"Stratton Long opened the door. Outside in the yard the water was three feet deep. He could not have known of the difference in levels. The outcome was astonishing. The door, wrenched out of his hand by a wall of water, burst inwards, smashing hard against a chest of drawers, sending ornaments flying in all directions. The cottage floor was covered with linoleum and the great surge that came in went under this. In the centre of the room a pedestal table rose up on a small hill as if a great animal was rising beneath it, then toppled over. Everything in the room then began moving around. Stratton waded in, picked up my grandmother and carried her across to the stairs. While he was pushing her up the stairs saucepans came floating out of the pantry like a flotilla of ducks.

“There was little more that could be done after Stratton left, so we went to bed, with the house beneath us full of the sea. I worried that the water, which was higher than it had ever been before, would just continue to rise. There seemed to be no reason why it should stop.

“The morning brought great distress to my mother and grandmother. Almost all that my grandmother possessed was ruined. There were inches of mud over everything. Because I had been so praised for my efforts the night before I willingly began to help clean up, but I sensed that I was not wanted there. I went out to inspect the damage. The street was choked with rubbish. I had to climb over our gate. With a group of boys I went around the quay. It was an amazing sight. There was such a tangle of rubbish it was ridged into great waves which clattered against the stonework of the quay.

“The road was littered with all kinds of stuff. There were hundreds of packets of cigarettes and playing cards from the Blakeney Hotel cellars. There were also lots of dead freshwater fish. When we trod on these we found they were more slippery than banana skins.

“The big surprise awaited us beyond the East sea bank. We saw a sheet of water stretching to the horizon. The marsh was one vast lake. A few posts and bushes broke the surface. I was told later that this had once been Blakeney Haven which had held 120 ships. What had been taken away by one great storm had been returned by another.

“This was the most exciting experience of my life. With the wind still blowing I was really hoping there would be another flood the next night.”

When Geoffrey finished his story everyone clapped long and hard. He beamed as he returned to his seat.

To round off this special evening Joe Buttercup returned to the stage to recite a poem entitled The North Sea.

The sea the sea the mighty North Sea.
One January night it invaded our land
It swept everything in its path
The sea the sea the mighty North Sea
It killed all the birds the beasts and the trees
It poisoned our land with its salt
The sea the sea the mighty North Sea
Dawn broke early the following morn
The people were tired, weary and worn
When the sea crept back to its bed
Oh what a sea, the mighty North Sea
The most mightiest sea of them all.

* *

As they made their way home Martin said to Mary, “You should really tell me the truth, you know. It was patently obvious that those people from Heron House couldn’t support your story. Where were you that night?”

“I was at Heron House.''

“But they said you weren’t.”

“Well, I know you won’t believe me and you will think I am crazy, but I was there, though it was a hundred years ago. I went into some sort of time warp during the storm. I got hit on the head, and the next thing I knew I was being taken in by this woman who wore old fashioned clothes. She thought my clothes were peculair and asked if I was wearing bloomers.”

“Who was this woman?''

“I told you. Mrs Rebecca Jackson. She lived with her daughter. She told me about her house guests and the friends who had played whist with her that day. I questioned her about the poeple who lived in the village. Their names were different. I didn't know them. But I was there.''

"You must have been concussed by the fall. You had something like a dream. You had heard or read about these historical details, and somehow they came back to you.''

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

"It isn't that I don't want to believe you. I've had some odd experiences myself. Communications that seemed to be telepathic. But there's a big difference between that and communicating with people who lived in another century. Remember, you are pregnant. Unusual thoughts occur to women during pregnancy.''

“I didn’t ask for the experience. I have told you the truth. If you can’t or won’t believe me, so be it. I can’t change my story to fit with your ideas of what might or might not be possible.”

So the discussion went, back and forth. Neither of them slept much that night.

The next morning, Martin went to work as usual. Mary suddenly remembered that she had written a list with the names of Rebecca’s friends on it. She checked in the pocket of the trousers she was wearing that night and it was still there. The ink was slightly smudged but she could read most of the names clearly. She wondered who would be best to ask about them, then recalled Miss Starr’s talk the previous night. Taking her children with her, went across the road to have a chat with Miss Freda Starr.

“We certainly enjoyed hearing your tale last night Freda,” she said.

“I understood you were missing also on the night. What happened to you Mary?”

“Oh, I just got hit on the head and somebody offered me shelter for the night. Nothing very dramatic. I feel like I missed out on the most exciting thing to happen in Cley for a long time.”

“Well there are even more stories than those you heard last night.''

The children were happily building castles from food tins. Miss Starr just smiled, not seeming to mind what they were doing. There was nobody else in the shop.

"Miss Starr, I wanted to ask you about who was in this shop before you were here. I seem to remember the name Starling.”

“Nothing wrong with my memory. Unlike Ivy, who forgets things all the time. We bought the house from the Starlings. They called it The Goggles and we changed it to Commerce House. They ran it as a general grocery too. I can remember Mr Stephen Starling’s funeral when I was just a slip of a lass. He was a prominent leader in the Methodist church. The pulpit and rostrum were draped with black curtains. I was very impressed.”

“Was Stephen Starling the grocer too?”

“It was Richard Starling who was the grocer, first at Blakeney, then the father and son Joe together bought this place when they decided to stop running the pub here.”

“Oh, you mean this building was once a pub? What was it called?”

“I seem to remember it was the Mariner’s Arms.”

“You don’t remember who ran it do you?”

“It was long before we lived here. Why are you interested in all these things all of a sudden?”

“Oh, nothing, I just enjoy local history and like to match up names. Did you ever hear of the Baines? I heard that Mr. Baines was a draper and his daughter was a dressmaker.”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“Did you know of any Ramms in the area? Perhaps one of them was a ship’s captain?”

“Well Mrs Ramm was my favourite teacher, Miss Sheldrake as she was when she taught me. And there are lots of Ramms around about, farmers and such like. But there were six retired Navy captains who lived in Cley at the turn of the century and the houses still have the names of the ships they sailed in. One is called The Anchorage. And didn’t Buttercup Joe mention a Ramm in his talk last night?”

“Do you know any stories about the other houses around here?”

“Well the little house next door to us, now known as Hambledon, possessed a ghost which was supposed to run up and down stairs. A little man who wore a high hat and cloak. We never saw him, but when we came to Cley two brothers were living there, and one night my father heard a horse in the yard adjoining ours. To get into the yard the horse would have had to be brought through the house, as there was no other access. The brothers did a moonlight flit, and as far as I know, were never again seen or heard of Cley.

“Talking about odd names, did you ever hear of any people called by the unfortunate name, the Bastards?”

Miss Starr pulled herself upright and said, “Well, I would certainly change the name if it were mine, but they didn’t. Didn’t seem to worry them at all.”

“Where did they live?”

“Across the road here. They had a bakery. I could tell you a tale about them.”

Oh please do.”

“Well I can remember a big fire, and the people who ran he bakery. He wore a large white apron and she a man’s cap. I didn’t see the fire but I heard people fetching water from our pumps and I can remember the house being rebuilt with a different frontage. And then several years later, a plague of cockroaches came to the bakers. Those insects love warmth and feed on flour. They came out into the street in thousands. They hung on the bakery window sill like grapes. They were crawling everywhere. In the street, up people’s walls, into our warehouse. Someone came to tell my father and we all went out armed with kettles of hot water, hammers and anything which we could use to kill them. I’ve never seen such a sight. Made you wonder if it was really raisins in the scones or baked cockroaches,” she said with a laugh.

During the conversation Mary had been delighted to hear names which Rebecca Jackson had mentioned. Families which had apparently been living in Cley in 1853 were still in the area when Miss Starr and her family arrived in the village in 1906.

She bought a card of green buttons, collected her children, and returned home, easier in her mind.