The Morning Gift

That was what things were coming to, she thought. Twenty years ago, the wife of a publican would have been honoured to have a dog from the big house. Any dog. It was all of a piece, this idiot mongrel . . . all of a piece with waitresses who wept over the autumn crocus, with cowmen who sang and Wagner’s stepdaughter with her unequal eyes. Comely slept in her kennel; she would not have dreamt of coming upstairs. And it wasn’t any good rereading Pride and Prejudice yet again. Mr Darcy might have been disappointed in Elizabeth Bennet in chapter three, but by chapter six he was praising her fine dark eyes.

‘I’ll take him down,’ said Martha, reaching for the dog.

‘Oh, leave him for a bit,’ said Frances wearily. Still holding the puppy in her arms, she sat down in the chair beside her bed.

‘I have come to fetch you,’ the little man had said, opening his briefcase, removing his hat . . .

It began so well, the trip to the Farnes. The weather had been unsettled for the past two days, but now the sun shone again and as the Peggoty chugged out of Sea-houses harbour, they felt that lift of the heart that comes to everyone who sails over a blue sea towards islands.

The puppy felt it too, that was clear. Its rejection by the innkeeper had left it emotionally unscarred and its position as student mascot was now established. Quin would not allow it in the dinghy, but the Peggoty was a sturdy fishing boat which he rented each year and there was a cabin of a sort where the owner stored his lobster pots and tackle – the dog could be shut in there when they landed.

Dr Felton had stayed behind to sort out the previous day’s samples; Quin was at the wheel, steering for one of the smaller islands where the warden was waiting to show them the work in progress. They had missed the spectacular breeding colonies of the spring when the cliffs were white with nesting guillemots and razorbills and the puffin burrows honeycombed the turf, but there were other visitors now: the migrant goldcrests and fieldfares and buntings – and the seals, hundreds of them, returning to have their pups.

They passed Longstone lighthouse and the Keeper, digging his vegetable patch, straightened himself to wave.

‘That’s where Grace Darling came from, isn’t it?’ asked Sam, thinking how like the Victorian heroine in the paintings Ruth looked with her wind-whipped hair.

Quin nodded. ‘The Harcar rocks are to the south, where the Forfarshire broke up. We’ll see them on the way back.’

‘It’s amazing that Mrs Ridley’s grandmother knew her, isn’t it?’ said Ruth. ‘Well, the family . . . someone in a legend. She said it wasn’t the tuberculosis so much that killed her, but the fuss they made of her afterwards making her a heroine. I wouldn’t mind being a heroine – it wouldn’t kill me!’

Quin didn’t doubt this. ‘How did you meet Mrs Ridley’s grandmother?’ he asked curiously. ‘She usually keeps herself to herself.’

‘I went to fetch some eggs and we got talking.’

They were very close to the shore when it happened. Dr Elke had gone into the cabin to hand out their belongings, Quin was watching the point, steering for the jetty on the far side.

And what did happen at first was simply funny. A large bull seal bobbed up unexpectedly not four feet from the boat on the island side. A benevolent, comical seal with long grey whiskers, making himself known.

The puppy had been asleep on a pile of canvas. Now he woke, lifted his head.

The seal sneezed.

The effect was electric. The puppy let out a sharp bark of excitement and clambered onto the gunwale. What he was seeing was unheard of . . . an ancestor? A monster? His barks became frenzied; he scrabbled with his feet against the wood.

The boat tilted.

It took only a second . . . one of those seconds that no one can believe are irreversible.

‘He’s gone! Oh God, the puppy’s gone!’

Quin looked round, assessed the creature’s chances. The sea was calm, but the tide here ran at five knots. To be dashed against the rocks or swept past them out to sea were the alternatives – yet he began to turn the boat, heading her into the wind.

No one dreamt that this was only the beginning. Ruth was impetuous, but she was not mad. Dr Elke was just emerging from the cabin, she was too far away to see; the others were leaning over the side, trying to chart the progress of the little dog as he bobbed up, paddling frantically, and vanished into the trough of a wave. Only when Pilly began to scream – then they saw. Saw Ruth’s bewildered face as the current took her, saw her head turn . . . not to search for the dog now . . . to measure her terrifying speed.

The next seconds were the stuff of Quin’s nightmare for years to come: those seconds in which he forced himself to remain where he was till he had turned the boat fully into the wind and shut down the engine. Not letting himself move till he could rely on the Peggoty to hold steady.