Mistress of the Storm (4 page)

In the far corner was a small group of girls. Verity’s heart sank as she spotted the venomous Miranda Blake, sister to George and Oscar. Thin and small, with a pinched face and slightly bulbous eyes, Miranda was utterly poisonous. Even
the girls who picked on Verity at Priory Bay were grateful that she attended the all-girls Whale Chine.

Spying Verity, Miranda called a halt to the conversation. The hall fell silent as she made her way with absolute confidence over the wooden floor. She studied Verity disdainfully, from her wind-blown hair to her coat, which was buttoned askew, then leaned towards her ear.

‘Do your parents find you terribly disappointing, Gallant?’ she murmured, with the faintest of lisps.

Verity flinched. Inside she felt the pain of a truth spoken out loud. Worse still, there was no sign of her fellow pupils. She wondered if she’d got the wrong time or place, or both.

‘They’re in the Protest Room,’ said Miranda, nodding her head to indicate a door to the left. ‘Scraping the barrel a little, aren’t they?’

Verity’s fingers brushed against the curious wooden ball in her pocket. She turned it around in her hand and was aware that she didn’t feel intimidated any more. ‘I hear they were holding out for a skinny midget who’d get blown overboard at the first puff of wind’ – Verity stared levelly at the other girl – ‘but now they’ve got me.’

Miranda smirked, acknowledging Verity’s humour in a manner calculated to chill to the bone. ‘The storm is coming, Gallant,’ she whispered as Verity passed by. ‘But your family shan’t rule the roost this time.’

Miranda Blake too? What
was
this storm? Her burst of defiance over, Verity realized all at once that she was pretty
close to tears. Pulling herself together, she pushed open a second door labelled PROTESTS and concentrated on facing the next group of adversaries.

Over an hour later Verity left the club, breathing a sigh of relief that her ordeal was over. She hadn’t understood a word Mrs Watson was saying, or any of the peculiar diagrams on the blackboard – which were apparently depictions of dinghies, starting lines and buoys. Looking up, she smiled at the sight of Henry waiting patiently for her on the low wall, a paper parcel in his hands.

‘Cheesy chips,’ he offered.

Verity took her package with thanks and opened it to investigate. This wasn’t a foodstuff she’d ever come across before.

‘The trick with cheesy chips,’ Henry explained authoritatively, ‘is to make sure the chips aren’t too hot when the cheese goes on. That’s what keeps it … cheesy.’

Verity tried one. It was surprisingly good.

Henry nodded gravely. ‘The food of kings.’

Verity sat down on the wall next to him. ‘Miranda Blake said the storm was coming,’ she said as they ate. ‘She seemed quite pleased about it.’

Henry snorted. ‘Typical Blake,’ he said, waving a chip dismissively.

‘Why is everyone so excited about the weather?’ asked Verity. ‘Is it going to be particularly bad?’

Henry looked at her, chewing thoughtfully. ‘Your
parents really don’t talk much about the Gentry, do they?’

Verity frowned. What did that have to do with anything? ‘Not a lot,’ she admitted. ‘I think they see it all as slightly vulgar.’

Henry laughed. ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ he conceded. His chips finished, he scrunched the paper into a ball and threw it with pinpoint accuracy into a wood-slatted bin. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘If we hurry we’ll just about get to the headland in time.’

Verity stared at him in alarm. ‘In time for what …? I have to go home,’ she insisted. ‘My parents will be wondering where I am.’

‘Do they know how long a tactics session lasts?’ Henry asked her.

‘No. I don’t suppose they do.’ Verity had never deliberately stayed out late in her life.

‘Come on then, or we’ll miss it. You get the best view from up there.’

‘The best view of what?’ asked Verity, scurrying after him, overwhelmed with curiosity now.

‘This way,’ said Henry, pointing to an alley. ‘I know a short cut.’

The town of Wellow lay still and expectant under a silent sky. Above the bay, its houses clung to the curved cliff-face. The small white fishermen’s cottages clustered round the harbour. Further up, the stone villas grew larger and more ornate as they ascended. At the top, the Manor dominated the skyline to the west, while to the east was Priory Bay College.

The weather was changing. In the distance the sky was a bruised black. An overwhelming sense of calm and peace cocooned the town. The air was close and warm. No trees rustled. No birds sang. The atmospheric pressure had dropped and it felt like a promise of hopes to be fulfilled.

A lone gull flew across the downs towards the headland – here, the wind blew clean and fast and straight – swooping down again to the ocean, which stretched all the way to the horizon. The salt spray was fresh and cold, the rolling sea flecked with specks of white. Without warning the greatest smuggling ship of all time crashed into view.

The
Storm
was coming.

She cut through the bright green ocean like a knife. The waves beat at her pristine wooden hull as she towered above the water. She was colossal – three hundred feet high and two hundred and twenty-five long, her deck a quarter of an acre. She made her presence felt like a living thing. She didn’t just dominate the view, she gripped your attention and held it by the throat. She was awesome and magnificent, so vivid that she seemed to put everything around her out of focus.

The sounds of deck, hull and masts straining – of loose blocks and sheets slapping and smacking and banging – rang out; the crash of the prow as the
Storm
ploughed head-on into the churning waves. Sea water washed over her deck and drained back in torrents of foam. Her crew worked furiously – dirt-stained, sun-brown and wind-beaten, each one a master of his particular skill. The weather was getting worse now, but they just whooped and cat-called all the more, flying in defiance of the sea.

In Wellow harbour a crowd had gathered on the quay. Word had spread – as it always does. A gaggle of spectators stood awaiting a first glimpse. A hush had fallen.

The
Storm
was coming. And it would change Verity Gallant’s life for ever. But while she knew nothing of this, there were those in Wellow who were alive with anticipation. And they were drawn to the quay like children to a piper.

Jasper Cutgrass – only child of loving parents Cyril and Iris
Cutgrass and officer of the Preventative Men – waited there patiently, oblivious to the shoves and buffets of the surrounding crowd. His was not a popular or well-paid career, but Jasper had never seen that as sufficient reason not to take pride in his professional appearance. From the gleaming buttons on his jacket to his lovingly polished, if more than a little worn, boots, Jasper shone with the enthusiasm of a man whose life revolved around his employment.

He could scarcely believe he was actually here. But he wouldn’t have missed the
Storm
’s return to Wellow for anything. From the minute he’d heard she was expected, he’d known he had to bear witness. He knew her arrival would bring enlightenment. And she was bringing the weather with her too, just like the books said.

The heavens opened, and rain started to pour down on the crowd. Out at sea lightning struck. The
Storm
rounded the headland and the crowd let out a gasp.

‘The most famous of the Gentry fleet,’ Jasper breathed to himself. ‘The
Storm.
’

He stood on the quay and gazed out in awe through the drenching rain. His woollen coat had soaked up so much water it must have been twice its usual weight. It was maddeningly uncomfortable. But Jasper Cutgrass didn’t give a damn. This was the happiest day of his life.

Villainous Usage had also been helplessly pulled to the quay, in no little part by the iron will of his parent, Mother
Usage. The Usages were the kind of family the people of Wellow crossed the street to avoid. As his mother elbowed herself a clear view of the
Storm
, Villainous trailed silently in her wake, his verminous eyes darting from observer to observer. Nobody bothered protesting: they were mesmerized by the scene taking place before them on the open sea.

It had been a wearing day for Villainous. The rent man had turned up just as Mother was putting her key to the door. And some interfering busybody in the baker’s had the effrontery to offer her a job washing laundry. He just thanked his lucky stars the
Storm
was finally coming back to Wellow. At last he could resurrect the family business, the source of their former good fortune.

As Mother sighted the fabled ship at last, her face took on an unaccustomed look of genuine happiness. Her greasy chins wobbled with emotion. Villainous winced as she gripped his arm in excitement. ‘She’s here, son,’ she crowed triumphantly.

Villainous gazed at the
Storm
with reverence. He had never got beyond the basics of sailing (too cold, too wet and too much like hard work for his liking) but he knew enough to understand that the crew of the
Storm
were masters of their art. Like hounds of the sea they bayed and bellowed as they worked the vessel, clearly loving every thrilling minute of this battle with the elements.

Mother turned to her son gleefully. He had never seen her so jubilant. ‘This is where our fortunes change,’ she
promised, stroking the shiny arm of his coat affectionately. Villainous’ weasel-thin face was set in a rictus of anticipation. The sight of his haphazard dentistry was unnerving, but Mother patted his cheek happily. Her son enjoyed the momentary affection while it lasted.

Standing under the overhang of a quayside building, Isaac Tempest – an old man now – watched the
Storm
’s arrival with his seventeen-year-old grandson. Two generations, both unable to resist the
Storm
’s call.

Placidly Isaac packed his pipe with tobacco. Lighting it, he drew hard until a cloud of sweet vanilla smoke surrounded them. His grandson stared out to sea, covetously admiring the skill shown by the crew of the
Storm
. His family were steeped in sailing. Without their talent and daring the Gentry could never have established their empire. But the crew of the
Storm
were more legendary still.

‘Don’t need to make such a show of it, do they?’ he finally blurted out in a disgruntled outburst.

His grandfather hid a smile. ‘They can’t resist the sport,’ he said. His clear blue eyes crinkled mischievously. ‘Not sure many young men could, if truth be told.’

At the top of the headland Verity stood next to Henry and stared in wonder. The rain was so heavy it was like a sheet of water – dragging on their eyelashes, creeping into their mouths, running up their noses. Verity’s hair was plastered to her skull but she scarcely noticed.

‘That’s why everyone is here,’ Henry shouted over the wind, pointing down to the quay. ‘The
Storm
is incredibly famous, and she hasn’t visited Wellow since the Gentry disbanded. No one knows why.’ He grabbed Verity’s arm and pointed to the upper deck behind the mast. ‘Is that the man you met in the library?’ he asked.

Verity gasped. It
was
him. The tall stranger.

‘His name’s Abednego,’ said Henry. ‘He’s the captain of the
Storm
. Must be terribly old now.’

The man looked ageless. Holding his place on the quarterdeck – the control centre of the ship – he shouted out the occasional order while the crew whirled in frenzied activity around him. His stillness made him seem, if anything, all the more commanding. It was as if they had worked as a team for so long they no longer needed mere words to communicate.

In the hands of a less skilled captain, the
Storm
would have been pitching about like a cork on Wellow’s perilous lee shore by now. There was so little sea room; no margin for error.

‘He’s searching for the spot,’ yelled Henry. Verity didn’t understand. ‘There’s only one place where the
Storm
can anchor on this piece of shore,’ he explained. ‘Abednego’s looking for it.’

Aboard the
Storm
, a crew member swung a long rope – marked with cloth and leather strips and weighted with a waxed piece of lead – into the sea. After pulling it up to determine whether the sea bed was of sand, shingle or rock,
he threw it back in again. Now at last he seemed to have found what he had been ordered to seek out. The word went back to Abednego.

The captain gave the command to reduce sail. The euphoric cries of the wild-eyed crew were deafening: they scrambled up the precarious web of ratlines and shrouds that gave access to the rigging, and set about furling the sails. They balanced on the yards that extended from the masts – hundreds of feet above the sea – terrifying in their fearlessness.

The
Storm
slowed down. With skill and care Abednego steered his vessel into the wind, to the point where she could do nothing but stand still. He gave the order, and the best anchor was lowered on the starboard side – the crew letting out just the right amount of chain to hold her fast.

As the anchor bit into the sea bed, the
Storm
snapped to a halt, then slowly settled to point in the direction of the tide. Like an angry child who has finally run out of steam, the foul weather stopped just as abruptly as it had started. The wind ceased howling through the rigging. The merciless noise of straining wood, the slapping and banging of loose sheets and blocks ended. The churning waves that had washed the decks subsided back into a steady rolling mass. Only the rain continued to pour down relentlessly.

In the harbour the stunned crowd cheered and applauded. Above them, on the downs, Verity and Henry began to make their way back to town, skidding and slipping on the water-soaked ground. The harbour buzzed
with the bustle of crewmen starting the formidable task of provisioning. Verity couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder at the
Storm
. Like many others in Wellow, she was irresistibly drawn to the magnificent galleon. Little did she know that the
Storm
would bring change – rippling out in a circle like the wind from a terrifying explosion. Verity may not have understood what she had seen, but there was no doubt that she would be amongst the first to feel its effects.