5. THE START OF A NEW CAREER
Una Persson's airboat was very different from the sort of aircraft I had become used to in the world of 1973. This was a flimsy affair consisting of an aluminium hull from which projected a sort of mast on which was mounted a large, three-bladed propeller. At the tail was a kind of rudder, and on either side of the rudder were two small propellers. From the hull sprouted two broad, stubby fins which, like the small propellers, helped to stabilize and to steer the boat once it had taken to the air. We rose, swaying slightly, from the ground, while the boat's motor gave out a barely heard purring. It was only now that I sought to inquire of our destination. We were flying at about a height of 1,000 feet over the remains of Inner London. There was not a landmark left standing. The entire city had been flattened by the invader's bombs. The legendary fate of Carthage was as nothing compared to this. What had possessed one group of human beings to do such a thing to another? Was this, I wondered, how Hiroshima had looked after Shan-tien had dropped its cargo of death? If so, I had much on my conscience. Or had I? I had begun to wonder if I moved from dream to dream. Was reality only what I made of it? Was there, after all, any such thing as 'history'?
'Where are we headed for, Miss Persson?' I asked, as we left London behind.
'My first stop will have to be in Kerry, where I have a refuelling base.'
'Ireland.' I remembered the first subaquatic vessel I had seen. 'I had hoped…'
I realized, then, that I had already made up my mind to accept Korzeniowski's offer. I had seen enough of my homeland and what its inhabitants had become. Korzeniowski's statements about the sea being the only 'clean' place to be were beginning to make sense to me.
'Yes?' She turned. 'I would take you all the way with me, Mr Bastable. I owe you that, really. But for one thing I have scarcely enough power to get myself back and another passenger would make a crucial difference, while secondly you would probably have no taste for the kind of life I would take you to. I could drop you somewhere less dangerous than Southern England. It is the best I an offer.'
'I was thinking of making for Scotland,' I said. 'Would I stand a better chance of survival there?' I was reluctant to disclose my actual destination. Korzeniowski would not appreciate my revealing his secret station.
She frowned. 'The coast of Lancashire is about the best I can suggest. Somewhere beyond Liverpool. If you avoid the large cities, such as Glasgow, you should be all right. The Highlands themselves sustained very little bombing and I doubt if the plagues reached there.'
And so it was that I bid farewell to Una Persson on a wild stretch of saltings beside the coast of Morecambe Bay near a village called Silverdales. It was dawn and the scenery around me made a welcome change from that I had so recently left. The air was full of the cries of sea-birds searching for their breakfast and a few sheep grazed on the salt-flats, taking a wary interest in me as they cropped the rich grass. In the distance was the sea, wide, flat and gleaming in the light of the rising sun. It was a comforting picture of rural tranquillity and much more the England I had hoped to find when I had first landed at Dover. I waved good-bye to Miss Persson, watching her airboat rise rapidly into the sky and then swing away over the ocean, heading towards Ireland, then I shouldered my carbine and tramped towards the village.
The village was quite a large one, consisting mainly of those fine, stone houses one finds in such parts, but it was completely deserted. Either the inhabitants had fled under the threat of some supposed invasion, or else they had died of the plague and been buried by survivors who, in turn, had prudently gone away from the source of the disease. But there were no signs of any sort of disaster. Hoping to find food, maps and the like, I searched several houses, finding them completely in order. Much of the furniture had been neatly draped with dust-covers and all perishable food had been removed, but I was able to discover a good quantity of canned meats and bottled fruit and vegetables which, while heavy to carry, would sustain me for some time. I was also fortunate enough to find several good-quality maps of Northern England and Scotland. After resting for a day in Silverdales and granting myself the luxury of sleeping in a soft bed, I set off in the general direction of the Lake District.
I soon discovered that life was continuing at a fairly normal pace in these parts. The farming is largely sheep and cattle, and while the people who remained were forced to live in what was comparative poverty, the war had hardly altered their familiar pattern of existence. Instead of being regarded with fear and suspicion, as I had been in the Home Counties, I was welcomed, given food, and asked for any news I might have about the fate of the South. I was happy to tell all I knew, and to warn these friendly Northerners to beware of the insanity which had swept the counties around London. I was told that similar conditions existed near Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool and Leeds, and I was advised to skirt Carlisle, if I could, for while the survivors of that city had not descended to the level of barbarity I had experienced in East Grinstead, they were still highly suspicious of those who seemed better off than themselves and there had been minor outbreaks of a variant of the disease known as Devil's Mushroom, which had not improved their disposition towards those who were not local to the area.
Heeding such warnings, proceeding with caution, taking advantage of what hospitality I was offered, I slowly made my way north, while the autumn weather - perhaps the finest I had ever known - lasted. I was desperate to get to the Islands before winter set in and the mountains became impassable. The Grampians, those stately monarchs of the Western Highlands, were reached, and at length I found myself crossing the great Rannoch Moor, heading in the general direction of Fort William, which lay under the shadow of Ben Nevis. The mountains shone like red Celtic gold in the clear sunshine of the early winter; there is no sight like it in the whole world and it is impossible to think of the British Isles as being in any way small, as they are in comparison with most other land areas, when you see the Grampians stretching in all directions, inhabited by nothing save the tawny Highland cattle, grouse and pheasant, their wild rivers full of trout and salmon. I ate like a king during that part of my journey - venison became a staple - and I was tempted to forget about my plan for joining Korzeniowski in the Outer Hebrides and to make my life here, taking over some abandoned croft, tending sheep, and letting the rest of the world go to perdition in any way it chose, But I knew that the winters could be harsh and I heard rumours that the old clans were beginning to re-form and that they were riding out on cattle-raids just as they had done in the days before the dreams of that drunken dandy Prince Charles Edward Stuart had brought the old Highland ways of life to a final and bitter end.
So I continued towards Skye, where I hoped I might find some sort of ferry still operating on the Kyle of Lochalsh. Sure enough, the inhabitants of Skye had not abandoned their crucial links with the mainland. Sailing boats plied a regular trade with the island and a haunch of venison bought me a passage on one of them just as the first snows of the winter started to drift from out of vast and steely skies.
My real difficulties then began I The people of Skye are not unfriendly. Indeed, I found them among the most agreeable folk in the world. But they are close-mouthed at the best of times, and my inquiries as to the possible whereabouts of an underwater vessel called the Lola Mo»te% fell on deaf, if polite, ears. I could not gain an ounce of information. I was fed, given a considerable quantity of strong, mellow local whisky, invited to dances all over the island (I think I was regarded as an eligible bachelor by many of the mothers) and allowed to help with any work which needed to be done. It was only when I offered to go out with the fishing-boats (hoping thus to spot Korzeniowski's ship) that my help was refused. From Ardvasar in the south to Kilmaluag in the north the story was the same - no one denied that underwater boats called, from time to time, at the Islands, and no one admitted it either. A peculiar, distant expression would come over the faces of young and old, male or female, whenever I broached the subject. They would smile, they would nod, they would purse their lips and they would look vaguely into the middle-distance, changing the subject as soon as possible. I began to believe that not only was there at least one fuelling station in the Outer Hebrides but that the islanders derived a good deal of their wealth, and therefore their security in troubled times, from the ship or ships which used such a station. It was not that they mistrusted me, but they saw no point in giving away information which could change their situation. At least, that is what I surmised.