Victorian Maiden by Gary Dolman Page A

sands of the causeway looked pristine, he explained, even benign, and although they carried a saintly name, they concealed deadly channels and moving quicksands that could easily trap the unwary and the disobedient.
    Dusk was just rolling in as they finally reached the sanctuary of the island. The great ruined castle of Bamburgh stood sentinel, stark and black against the crimson skies over the mainland just a few miles to the south. Below that, their own island was guarded by its smaller twin, a brutally rugged stone fortress crouched on a rocky mound. It was silhouetted against the lights and chimney smoke of a cluster of tiny fishing cottages. John had told her that his father owned one of the cottages there that he occasionally used during his visits to the island. 
    But Uncle Alfie hadn’t taken them to the village. Instead he had quickly shepherded them the other way, out towards to the empty, desolate horizon to the north. That was where, he said, the very best adventures of all were to be had.
    Peter, the little boy, had come from the workhouse at Starbeck. He had never seen the sea outside of a picture book before, and he was utterly mesmerised by the sight and the sound of the surf gently clawing at the sand and pebbles of the shore. He was enchanted as they followed it round, bustled along by Uncle Alfie, Mr James and Mr Price in a great, wide circle, to the far side of the island where there were no houses, to a tiny secluded inlet, nestled deep among the dark, whinstone rocks.
    Uncle Alfie rested a large carpet bag he had brought with him on the top of one of these rocks and lifted out four neatly folded rolls of clothing. 
    â€œCome here, children,” he said, “I’ve brought some dressing up clothes for our game. Put them on and then you can play awhile on the beach until we come back for you and begin our game in earnest.” 
    She remembered the catch in his voice as he spoke – that horrible catch that always meant that she had been a wicked little girl and that she needed to be punished. She remembered the chilling smile he exchanged with Mr James and Mr Price; a hollow smile, that never quite reached his eyes. But no, surely she must have been mistaken. He must be breathless from their walk; that was it. Didn’t he tell them, didn’t he promise them, that this was going to be a game?
    â€œWe are going to re-enact the very first Viking raid on British soil,” Uncle Alfie continued, “Which took place on this very island – the Holy Island of Lindisfarne – in the year of our Lord, Seven Hundred and Ninety Three. You four children are to be the Anglo-Saxon nuns and monks of the monastery here, and Mr James, Mr Price and I are going to be the Viking invaders.”
    So, giggling with excitement and anticipation, they ran to the rock to take
their very own bundle of dressing up clothes from Uncle Alfie’s trembling hands.
    â€œLizzie and I are dressing up as nuns,” Sarah called excitedly across to the other side of the inlet to where the boys were changing “What are you?”
    â€œWe are monks,” John shouted back. “I think that when the Vikings attacked, they generally raided the monasteries first because they knew that they would find lots of gold and silver and other treasure stored there.”
    â€œWe had better keep a sharp lookout for them in that case.”
    Lizzie was excited, happy almost, for the first time since her mama had died, and since Baby Albert was born and then had had to go and be an angel for Jesus. Instinctively, she reached for the tiny silver cross hanging from its fine chain around her neck. Her papa had given it to her when she was born, and she pressed the warm metal to her lips. It tasted of salt. 
    â€œPlease watch over us, Lord Jesus,” she whispered, “Especially here on your holy island, and please watch over the immortal souls of Mama and Papa and dear little Baby