The Fog
I prefer to live in the harbour area. The houses are a little dilapidated, but it is quiet and has a sort of dignity. Inland, higher up, is more lively no doubt, more modern; but the houses are femmer things. ‘Bummlor boxes’ somone called them - cardboard constructions fit to trap a few angry bees.
When we thought of living there, the estate agent’s report was suitably encouraging:
Modest terrace house, unmodernised, 2 bedrooms and oblique view of the sea. Inside toilet. Useful storage sheds in yard. Easy access to old town centre. Quick sale.
Not so close to the sea as to be liable to flooding.
Providing you don’t mind the odd spell of fog -
was the only comment of the person showing us round, delivered with almost an apologetic laugh, as though the fog was somehow their fault, or a particular drawback that accounted for the low price.
Fog…
Fog occurs when the temperature of the land or sea is lower than the air above it, causing the condensation of milliards of tiny droplets of water that hang in suspension in the air.
The local fogs came from the sea. They were known as ‘sea-frets’…
Sea-frets form at sea, and move inland with the incoming tide. While not so much a health risk as land-based fogs, that often hold particulates of carbon and sulphur, the swift and unexpected movements of sea-based fogs are a disturbing factor in residential areas close to the coast.
We soon learned to avoid them. Though not frequent, they could occur at any time of year, and made driving difficult. People prefered to stay indoors when there was sea-fret, we learned, considering them unhealthy. They made comments, gently guiding us:
Ye’re best bidin’ at hyem while the fog clears. It’s not good for the bairns to be out in that sort o’ weather. Aud Mr Jarvis wad gan out in it, and it did his asthma terribul harm - in hospital he was, in the end. Aa alwez say, Aa’d rather watch the telly than the fog, me.
It was usually possible to avoid getting cuaght. The fog-horn at the docks would start its eerie-ish wail a good quarter hour before the grey fog rolled up our way. You might think it pittoresque and vaguely dramatick but it wasn’t. A minute or two of its clammy dull touch and you soon turned aside into a cafĂ© or hurried home to be out of it. You began to talk of your chest or matters of road safety, but the truth was the fog had a depressing and discouraging effect; you felt it might tilt you over the edge into almost suicidal gloom.
What it makes me think of -
said my wife -
is unwanted children. Crowds and crowds of lonely, ill-treated bairns, looking for homes they never had. They never speak, but you can almost feel them holding onto you, clinging as you walk, begging you to find them some proper home other than the open sea.
It was an uncomfortable, chilling, near-ghostly thought, suitable to the fog that suggested it. I almost thought I could see some disintegrated confusion of young souls, beings that had never found any love or anywhere to settle down. Those that earn money have limitless respect; even the poor can gain some benefit from government and law; but children have no real status, no adult wit or strength to defend themselves, no title to property, and above all claim on money. They are as easy to forget or dismiss as a dog or a cat, and offer no one any profit. Why waste time on a child when you can watch telly, go to the pub, play a computer game, aim for a better job?
You have been out in the fog too long -
my wife would say, if I touched on these sad matters. Sad, because there seemed so little anyone could do, for the lost children of the past or the present. So when the foghorn sounded, we stayed at home, pulled the curtains, turned up the heating.
There is a particularly good film on Sky, or would you rather watch that investigation into multiple time zones in 19th century Cornwall? Tell you what, I’ll put it on and let you decide…
Wait, I said, I’ve yet to put the cat out.
Oh, not in this fog, do you have to?
It’s been in all day, I said, as I moved to the door. The cat was not inclined to exit, once it saw the fog outside. I didn’t blame it. I kept the door open a minute in case - when I heard a voice shouting from across the road. It was deadened in the mist, but I felt certain it was Ella, who lived opposite.
Who’s that?
It sounds like Ella. She must have been in her seventies, had always lived there, was the last person I expected to be out in the fog.
Oh no, what does she want?
No way of telling. She had a certain reputation in the street, being mildly dull, mentally, which was why her bairns had been taken into care. Long ago. You did not avoid her, but you seldom got much sense from her.
What is it?
I don’t know. Perhaps she’s in some sort of trouble. I looked along the street, hoping to see someone going to her aid, but the fog made it difficult to tell if anyone had heard. A curtain twitched next door, but no one came out. I called out that I was going to check, took a deep breath of home air, stepped over the cat, and made my way across the road to where I thought Ella must be. As I got closer, she emerged to my view, standing on her doorstep, shouting and apparently gone quite crazy. The door was wide open behind her and the fog beginning to drift into her house.
Come back, come back
she shouted…but she was not looking at me, but out into the fog. I took her arm gently, as though to steer her back into the warm, but she seemed determined not to budge.
Can you see them? Out there?
- she insisted -
All the bairns… out there… looking, looking for someone… hoping to find their home…
“Ella, it’s the sea-fret,” I said sensibly. “You need to come inbye, out of this cold air!”
It was as if I had not spoken. She giggled, as if she saw something amusing in the fog; then smiled, as if she recognised someone in the fog; she motioned with her arms and her voice almost chirrupped with eagerness -
Welcome! welcome at last! It’s here ye want! Come yor ways in, sit yorsells doon! Ye’re varry welcome! Bring yorsells in!
And the fog came nearer, seemed to flow round her, sending tentative fingers into the shelter of the doorway. She relaxed then with a long sigh and was calmer, though I still think she did not recognise my presence. It was all the time like she was talking to some other audience, or mebbies just to herself. She spoke, but as if I was not there -
I’m too aad - I dinnut need it, me - Let ’em have thor hyem - and welcome Aa say!
She went limp, and frail as she was, I could not hold her up, but had to let her gently down on the low front wall and there she huddled, her back against the house wall, her chin on her chest, very still. I did not like to think she was dead; could not decide what to do. I found I was unwilling to enter the house to use her phone: the fog had got in there, I could see it sliding ever in, down the hall, seeking out the rooms on either side. Thinking of the old lady though, it seemed my only course. I made as if to enter. The fog suddenly thickened indoors, barring my way; on the stairs and in the hall it seemed almost solid, a fence of what I could almost fancy to be faces. Ridiculous. I stepped back.
To my relief my wife came over then, and she held a torch, and her mobile phone. It was not easy to get an ambulance.
It’s very foggy! Are you sure it’s an emergency? It may take over long to get through the streets at the harbour…
But as we spoke I could see the fog was thinning. We felt for Ella’s pulse - there was none. We covered her with a coat and waited.
Page(s) 41-44
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