He walked further into the hidden cemetery, distracting himself by reading the messages on other markers, noticing that all the lives here had ended in 1943. So this was where some of the adult victims of the flood were buried, along with the children. These other graves, though, had not been as well cared for. They were stained, weather-worn, lichen growing on most. It seemed the children were better remembered than the older flood victims. And maybe that's how it should be.
He was almost at the angled rise of the gorge when he spotted the stone hiding in long grass and weeds and, because it was set aside from all the other graves, Gabe was curious.
The American squatted before it and parted the long grass and weeds so that he could read the headstone's inscription. It said:
AUGUSTUS THEOPHILUS CRIBBEN
1901-1943
No other words had been carved into the stone. No RIP, no IN LOVING MEMORY. Nothing. Just the birth and death dates. 1943: the same year as the flood. A flood victim like all the others in this part of the church cemetery? It seemed likely. But then why was this grave set apart from the others? And why so neglected? If the man had no living descendants to tend his resting place, surely St Mark's curate or groundsman would have made sure the stone was not practically obscured by grass and weeds like this; after all, the rest of the graveyard, front and back, was kept quite orderly. It was almost as if this particular grave had some shame to it.
Gabe stood erect, feeling strangely disturbed without knowing why. Maybe it was because he was still puzzling over whatever nagged him about the children's neat line of graves.
With a shake of his head, he turned away and headed back to the porch, hoping Eve would be waiting for him there; he had no urge to re-enter the church. Before he reached the corner he heard the quiet murmurings of voices.
•
Eve, Loren and Cally were sheltering from the light rain inside the porch, and as he approached he saw his wife was talking to a man and woman, both of whom were wearing green Barbour jackets. Both also had their trousers tucked into high, green rubber boots, the man sporting a smart flat cap, the woman wearing a colourful blue-and-yellow scarf and carrying an umbrella under which they both sheltered.
'Ah,' the man said as he saw Gabe's approach. 'You'll be Mr Caleigh, then.' He smiled and offered a hand.
Gabe shook it and nodded at the woman. They looked to be a compatible couple in their matching coats, both tall, but the man taller than the woman (and taller than Gabe), their features similar: strong nose, high cheekbones, chin a little weak, trim figures. Their eyes were different, though, his a washed-out blue, hers like a hawk's, sharp and staring, grey in colour. He looked to be in his early forties, she possibly younger, and his smile seemed more genuine than hers: Gabe thought there was reserve in her thin-lipped acknowledgement of him, and her gaze was too intense, as if he were a trespasser, there to steal the church silverware.
'Gabe,' said Eve almost nervously, 'this is the vicar of St Mark's, and his wife.'
'Andrew Trevellick,' the man said, still smiling. The Reverend Andrew Trevellick, actually, but please call me Andrew.'
Gabe was surprised that the vicar wore a shirt and knitted tie rather than a white collar.
'Bad weather, huh?' Gabe didn't know what else to say. Besides, the Brits usually referred to the weather after they'd been introduced, didn't they? He'd at least learned something in his sixteen years over here.
'Dreadful, dreadful,' returned the vicar. 'The rain doesn't seem to want to stop, does it? My wife's name is Celia, by the way.' They stood close together under the umbrella, as though joined at the hips.
Again, Gabe nodded his head at her, feeling under scrutiny.
'And your wife, Eve,' the vicar went on, 'tells me you've moved into Crickley Hall.'
'Just for a short spell.' Gabe noticed that the false smile on the vicar's wife had quickly dissolved.
'Splendid,' said Trevellick. 'I hope the place isn't too draughty for you.' Although the vicar had a West Country name, there was nothing parochial about this accent. He was pure Home Counties.
'We'll get by,' Gabe said, and he looked at Eve as though to reassure her. Cally hung on to Eve's sleeve and scuffed the sole of her boot against the porch step, restless and probably bored. Loren paid quiet attention to the adults as she always did.
'Celia and I are so pleased you decided to visit our little church so soon,' said Trevellick.
'It's lovely,' Eve acknowledged. 'Really lovely.'
'Yes, even on a day like today. You'll find it very peaceful inside. Of course, I hope you'll all attend our Sunday service while you're here in Hollow Bay.'
'We intend to,' Eve responded. 'At least, my daughters and I will. I'm not sure about Gabe…'
'Not a religious man, Mr Caleigh? Well, that's fine; you're still welcome to our services, or to visit on your own at any time. I rarely lock the church door during the day even though the rectory is further down the hill, nearer to the village. With two young daughters I'm sure you need some quiet time now and again.'
They all chuckled politely, and then Gabe said: 'I was looking around the grounds…' He waved an arm loosely as if to indicate where he had just come from.
'Ah, yes,' said Trevellick, a self-satisfied smile on his face. 'Walking among the dead, eh? Are you interested in that kind of thing?'
'Andrew.' Celia Trevellick tugged at her husband's arm indignantly. 'What a macabre thing to say.'
'Oh no, dear. Some of the messages on the more ancient headstones can be quite fascinating. One or two are highly amusing, and others a trifle sinister.'
'I saw the row of children's graves at the back,' said Gabe bluntly, and the vicar's jocularity swiftly vanished.
'Yes,' he replied, 'those poor children, all those years ago. They were taken from us during the war, as you will have seen by the date on their headstones. I believe the shock of the flood and the losses it caused has been passed down from generation to generation in Hollow Bay. Sixty-eight people died in one night, you know, eleven of them just children.'
That was it. That was what had been bothering Gabe when he'd viewed the graves. 'But there's only nine markers back there and there's eleven names mentioned on the board inside the church.' As an engineer Gabe's working life was detail—it was an essential requirement of his profession—and now he wondered how he'd missed it before. Nine kids buried, but eleven names on the remembrance board. Two kids missing.
The vicar spoke with great sadness in his voice. 'Unfortunately, the bodies of two of the children were never recovered. It seems the sea claimed them for its own.'
'They were swept out when the village was flooded?' Gabe, perhaps morbidly, was interested to know.
'Apparently, Mr Caleigh.' It was the vicar's wife, Celia, who answered. 'The children were evacuees, you see, sent down from London to escape the Blitz. All of them had been evacuated to Crickley Hall. That was where most of them drowned.'
11: IMAGINATION
'I knew I didn't like this place.'
Eve folded her arms and leaned back against a kitchen worktop while she waited for the plastic kettle to boil. They both needed hot coffee after their uphill trek from the harbour village. The girls were upstairs arranging their new bedroom to their liking, prized possessions they had brought with them to Devon finding suitable places to rest.
Gabe sat at the kitchen table, stroking Chester's head to calm him; the dog had become overexcited on their return and was still trembling.
'It was more than sixty years ago,' Gabe told Eve, exasperated. 'Those poor kids've been long gone.'