We had always lived nowhere. Well, next to nowhere really. On the shore; between the sea and the land.
The Seaweed Hut was grim. Always damp. Always too cold or too hot. My grandfather had left it to my father. Better that he had left him nothing. At least that way we could have lived inland and been beggars. Some people looked kindly on beggars. They thought nothing of Seaweeders. My mother only married my father because they were cousins. Because her family were Seaweeders he was the best she could do.
I didn't think I had any cousins so I never believed my marriage prospects were good. Now that I knew that I was around thirty they hadn't improved. I say around thirty. I obviously had a birthday but Sod knew when it was or even in what year I was born. It mattered little when your only role in life was collecting seaweed.
Ever since I could remember, I'd helped my parents rake it from the seashore, dry it and load it on a handcart and lug it up to Sutton Poyntz. They sold it to a farmer who didn't keep many animals to spread on his land as fertiliser. It paid little but that's what they did. That's all they could do. Even among the piss poor there was a pecking order which you couldn't escape. Ploughmen ploughed, labourers laboured and we lugged seaweed.
After they both died of smallpox six years ago I just kept on doing it because that's all I knew. I didn't catch the slightest bit of it. Even God didn't want me.
Now to make things worse, Boneyparts was waiting across the channel. Everybody knew that he was French and that he raped women and livestock and that he ate babies. Of these things being French was the most unforgivable.
Everyday, as I raked up the seaweed I kept a close eye out for Froggy ships.
I was ready to run away. Fortunately, I didn't have any livestock or babies.
Often the local volunteer militia would march along the shoreline looking for any sign that Boneyparts was trying to sneak into England. Everyone of them had a uniform but none of them had the same uniform. Most of them were old soldiers led by some pompous local squire. They suggested that I keep a knife or something handy to fight Boney off if he came. I told them that I would but really my plan was still just to run away.
Everyone knows that the King owns England and Scotland and Ireland too; I'm almost certain. He owns all the seas and oceans of the world as well. He owns other vast territories even if the people there don't think so. Great Lords own large parts of this country and farmers own smaller bits. What is not certain is who owns the land between the wet sea and the dry land. That's where the Seaweed Hut is. Just above what I hope is the highest tideline.
It is made of a frame of driftwood collected from the sea (which no-one owns). This is covered in dry seaweed (which no-one owns). Over this are various pieces of old sailcloth, savaged from the shoreline, held down with rocks.
I own the Seaweed hut now. Unless there are any taxes or duties to be paid in which case it's just a pile of sea junk that nobody owns.
Oh, I just realised that I didn't tell you my name. Sally, Sally Tew.
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I had nothing but when the winter storms came I was petrified of losing it. I added extra large rocks to the roof and sides. Huddling inside on a cold windblown night I prayed that the English Channel knew where the highwater line was and didn't wash me and the hut away.
Waves were sometimes thrown right up to the hut. Sometimes not just waves. Often flotsam and jetsam would hit the hut. Mostly it was stuff I didn't need. Occasionally, it was things that had been washed overboard from vessels.
The general rule was that if I didn't need it, it stayed on the beach and got in my way and if it had any value it got washed out to sea again.
Despite my fears, if anything heavy crashed onto the hut, I would venture out to see if it was any good. I say ventured, mostly I crawled on my hands and knees. Usually, I just got soaking wet and disappointed.
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A December gail had been whipping in from the South West for a day and a night. I had little choice but to lie in my cot with a blanket over my head. Keeping the small fire alight wasn't easy. A tiny hole above the doorway on the leeward side of the roof allowed most of the smoke to escape but still my eyes stung a little.
Twice already that night a loud thud in front of the hut had drawn me out into the storm. The first time it was an old piece of ship's timber; useful but not that valuable. I dragged it behind the hut. The second was a bale of calico. When that dried out, I could sell it. I pulled that inside.
Sleeping is not easy on perilous nights like these but I'd just drifted off when something was thrown against the hut. It didn't sound like a ship's timber yet it didn't sound quite like a bale of cloth either. My first thought was to leave it but what if it was worth the trouble?
Pulling a piece of sailcloth over my head, I pushed open what passed for a door just enough to squeeze out. Timing my run with the surging waves, I made my way around to the seaward side.
I grabbed the bundle of saturated clothing and tried to keep low and drag it at the same time. It was too heavy to be just wet clothes. The wet clothes contained a body.
My first thought was to leave it. The sea would sort it out. It wasn't my problem.
Then the body groaned. Still my instinct was to have nothing to do with it. When it made another pitiful sound I did something really stupid. I cared a jot.
I clung onto one leg and pulled it over the sand and shingle that surrounded the hut. Fortunately, the rest of it came too. All those years of lumping seaweed had made me strong.
By the time I got the sailor into the hut we were both like drowned rats. In the course of being dragged his poor head had banged against several rocks and was bloodier than a butcher's block. What was left of his clothing was ripped and torn. Which is how I knew it was a seaman and not some unfortunate woman.
I lay on the floor panting in the dim light from the fire.
What should I do now? Maybe stopping him bleeding to death would be a good idea.
Kicking the door open I thrust a pail outside. Within a minute or so the sea had half filled it. I ripped off what was left of the man's shirt and rinsed it in the cold water. After bathing his head I felt sure there were no gaping wounds there. This was no time for modesty, so I took a knife to the rest of his clothing. I washed him down. Sure enough, there were plenty of cuts and grazes but nothing that would take his life.
What would do for him was the cold. He was shaking and shivering. I managed to get his naked body into my cot and pull the blanket over him.
His teeth were still chattering with the cold. By now so were mine. My clothes were still wet and I had nowhere to sleep. The tiny fire gave off very little heat.
I slipped out of my dress and slipped naked into the cot. Pressed close to and slightly on top of him, the life preserving warmth began to slowly return.
