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of a coldness there, giving the coming night a keener edge. I turned with a regretful smile; the spectacle was over, there was no further reason for him to stay. But instead of the expected good-night, he said urgently: ‘In that case, let’s go across there and see those brave fellows – make sure they’re all right.’
    So that was what we did, hurrying down to the harbour and across the bridge to the east side. When we reached Tate Hill pier there was quite a crowd. The crew were only then being brought ashore, staggering on terra firma after several days and nights of storm-tossed seas. One turned aside to be violently sick against the pier wall. Someone said it was the captain, but in the darkness it was hard to tell one from another.
    They were foreign – Russians, I think – and it’s hard to say how much of English they understood; nevertheless, there were plenty of bystanders from nearby hostelries, all eager to offer congratulations and commiserations in equal measure.
    My companion was bright-eyed as we moved down the pier, wanting to see the ship, to know what she was carrying, by what route and from which ports. I had the feeling that if he could have gone aboard the
Dmitry
he would have; and, in spite of their trials and the shipwreck, he even seemed envious of the Russian crew. He certainly admired them.
    After all the drama, most of Whitby was in a celebratory mood. I felt it too; but somehow I had not expected the same from a well-travelled stranger. That he was taken up by these local events impressed me. I knew nothing of him, nor he of me, and yet in the last few hours we had forged a most unlikely and unexpected bond.
    As the bedraggled sailors were ushered through an open doorway into the warm and smoky taproom of the Duke of York, we stood in a sheltered corner across the way, for a while just watching and listening. Then, from the gathering darkness beyond, audible once the babble of voices ceased, came the hiss and boom of the tide as it worked against the stranded ship. The sound made me shiver.
    â€˜We should move,’ he said then, tightening his arm around me. A moment later, noticing the Church Stairs curving up and away to the right, he wanted to know where they led.
    â€˜The graveyard,’ I said, ‘and the abbey.’
    All at once, excitement was rekindled. ‘Really? I must see it...’
    I knew what it would be like up there and tried to dissuade him. In those conditions it was mad, but when he headed for the steps I had to follow. I couldn’t let a stranger out on the east cliff alone.
    Between Tate Hill and the parish church were 199 broad stone steps sweeping up the cliff, the first few yards easy until the wind took hold. Until each grip on the iron rail became a hand-over-hand haul to the top.
    The moon appeared as we crested the cliff, round and full, dazzling between racing banks of cloud. As the gale whipped and tore at my heavy serge gown, it was like being punched and beaten, almost impossible to breathe. My companion battled on, refusing to accept defeat. Ahead loomed the crumbling skeleton of the abbey, while before it the squat little church clung to the cliff like a gull with wings outstretched. In scudding moonlight the surrounding graves seemed to be moving, marching out like militia to do battle with the sea. An unnerving sight, as though the whole cliff was on the move.
    Terrified, I clung for safety to one of the stones, while he advanced without me, leaning into the wind. ‘We should go back!’ I yelled, summoning all the puny force at my disposal. Heedless, thinking himself safe in the shelter of the church, he was gazing up at the ruins. But not for long. A moment later, a particularly ferocious gust made him grab at an upright; after that he turned and made his way back to me. Despite the danger he was laughing, enjoying the buffeting like a child’s game, where I was dizzy with the racing moonlight and