Diver's Daughter

by Patrice Lawrence

  Jacques Francis raised his arms. “This is where the Venetian tried to sell me.”

  Sell him? I thought of conger eels on the fishmongers’ slabs and bundles of dented spoons or poppets and pallets piled with old clothes. There were markets that sold chickens, horses and cows. Those were the markets I knew. But I also knew that there were other markets that sold people. But Jacques Francis was a diver, the best. He couldn’t be a sl— I hated even thinking the word.

  “Was he was seeking payment for your services?” I asked.

  “For my services?” His voice lowered. “No, he was seeking payment for me. In Venice and other countries, people like me and your mother are bought and sold like a wool blanket. Except, merchants care for their blankets better than their slaves.”

  Mama had said that in Portugal, slaves were worked until they dropped dead. They were owned like a horse, but fed less.

  “Mama said that there is no slavery in England. Isn’t Southampton in England?”

  “Yes, Southampton is in England, but there are Englishmen on Portuguese soil who own slaves. Perhaps that’s why that rogue, Corsi, stood here as bold as the moon above us and offered me for sale to the highest bidder.”

  “Did anyone bid?” I clapped my hand over my mouth. That was a question I should have kept inside.

  Jacques Francis didn’t answer. I looked up at the moon. It was definitely brighter without London’s smoke. I wished it would shine some light into my head and help me see what I was supposed to do next. He leaned forward. He reminded me of the archers practising on the salt marsh. When they pull back their bow, it seems that their whole body, not just their arms, are bent towards making that arrow hit its mark.

  He said, “Can you hear it?”

  I could hear the bagpipes from a tavern in a neighbouring street and singing coming from down by the waterfront.

  “Hear what, sir?” I said.

  He shook his head. “I think it’s only me who hears it. So many men were lost beneath the water that sometimes I wonder if they’re calling to me. When we dived for the Mary Rose, I went into the water with my head full of pewter plate, gold coins and my rewards for bringing up the king’s guns, but all I saw at first were the bones. We had to reach between them to take what we could find. Even in the men’s death, there was no rest. Sometimes, a mother or wife would come up to us as we disembarked. They wanted to know if their son or husband was at peace. But people don’t care about boys and men when there’s tin and lead and cannon to find.”

  I imagined the sea sweeping back like a curtain to show the bare bed and the wrecks of boats and everything in them. The Mary Rose was only one ship. Standing there, in the cold moonlit square, with the smell of pitch and the scream of a gull, and the river not far away, my stomach heaved as if it was filling with water. I could feel the suck of the river in and out of my ears and then my face, head and my whole body was submerged. I had forgotten about the things floating in the Thames, brushing my cheeks, brushing against my arms and wrapping around my ankles. Then I remembered the voices, asking me my story.

  “You learn not to look,” he said. “You’ve come from London?”

  “We live in Southwark.”

  “Then you’ve seen death.”

  It was everywhere in our streets. Mama had once nursed a young woman who died as her baby was being born. Mama had seen me peering round the door and closed it gently. Last winter, I had seen a young man who had frozen to death in a butcher’s doorway.

  “I would feel the dead’s presence,” he said, “as I was scavenging for the merchants’ riches. I was the best diver of all of them. The sea around my island had been my first home. It was a strong, wild sea that beat against our shore. Boats tried to land and soon our waters were full of their cracked hulls. My friends and I used to dive among the wrecks looking for treasure. The only treasure we ever found was fish hooks and coins that were no use to us.”

  He looked up at the moon. “They stole us at night. Our island was already not our own, but at first they didn’t bother us. I wonder now if they were watching us, thinking about how much money we could bring them. First, they made me bring up oysters for pearls. When there were no more oysters, I was taken to Portugal and handed over to Corsi in Lisbon. He baptized me and gave me my new name.”

  I wanted to ask him what his name had been before. I had asked Mama that too, but she would never answer me. It was like she saved that little bit of her old life just for herself.

  “There were three of us,” he said. “From what, in these countries, they call Africa. Me, I was the youngest. Then there was George Blacke, a short man with a chest like a wine barrel. I think it held more breath than anyone else’s, because he could dive for the longest. John Iko was little more than a child, tall and thin, like he’d been turned on the rack. He drank more beer than me and George put together.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “To survive, we must scatter. When they believed I brought shame on them, all my friends disappeared.”

  He started walking again, tracing the perimeter of the square. He was still talking. I trotted along beside him.

  “I was the one Corsi said he trusted the most, the one who went the deepest.” He rubbed his ears. “Diving isn’t just a matter of holding your breath. You must know how to balance the weight of the water. You cannot just drop down there like a stone and carry on about your business. You have to learn how to see in those dark depths. You have to feel with your fingers, to understand what you are touching and not flinch away. Your ears burn, deep inside. Your face feels like an eagle has gripped it with hungry claws.”

  I touched my own ears. Would that have happened to me if I’d carried on to the bottom of the Thames?

  We stopped walking. I thought he was going to go round again, but he turned back towards French Street.

  “I was the best,” he said. “And even after Corsi tried to sell me, I still was loyal. I testified in a court of law in London that Corsi had not stolen tin from another merchant. I said that the tin was found far away by the rocks. My English wasn’t good then. I had to trust the wine merchant to interpret correctly. Do you know what they called me?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Infidel,” he said. “That was their name for me. They said that because I was born in a different land, I was a slave and a liar.

  “When I dived,” he continued, “I was filled with calmness. I would feel my heart beating. I would understand how much air to hold inside me and how much to release.” He held his fingers near his eyes. “I would feel the water pressing me as if I was caught between two heavy stones, but I stayed calm, because if I didn’t, I would die. But afterwards, after those merchants ganged together to question my word, I became angry. I tried one more dive, but my breath wanted to burst out of me. For the first time since I was a child, blood poured out of my nose and my ears felt as if they had been pierced with heated pins.”

  “Are you still angry?” I asked.

  “Yes. Now go to your mother. She will be worried.”

  A GOLD COIN ON THE COMMON

  Mama is beautiful. She is not beautiful like the rich ladies in their ruffs and furs and jewels, though she would be so much more beautiful than them if she ever had a chance to wear pearls and silk. She has brown skin, warm beneath the dust and dirt of our lives. She has marks from the smallpox and each scar reminds me that I am lucky to have her alive. Her eyes are almost the same colour as her skin, and her lashes are black and long. They twitch in her sleep like they can hear music and are longing to dance. Her hair, when it’s free from her coif cap, is thick and tied in one or two plaits.

  As March tipped into April, I spent every moment I could with her. I’d be tidying Claire’s chamber while Mama helped Claire eat, or I’d be sitting with Claire on her bed as Mama told us stories or sang us songs in her own language. I’d stand side by side with Mama as we chopped vegetables and I’d help her sweep away the old rushes on the floor and lay down new ones. I h
urt if I couldn’t see her because I knew that each day a new bead would drop into Griffin’s bag. I wondered how often he counted them and smiled at the fortune he saw coming his way. Then I’d remember the woman in the pillories. Her face would fade away and it would be Mama’s instead.

  I still walked around the town but I kept my head down. Folks had always glanced at Mama and me wherever we went, although less so in Southwark, where all manner of people made their home. Now I did not want to meet anyone’s eye. Mama and I were foreigners. Did they think badly of us? The day before, I had seen two young women coming towards me. Servants, I’d thought. They’d turned to each other and one whispered. Did they believe I was a witch about to curse them? Did the priest in St Lawrence’s Church see me pass by and wonder why I hadn’t attended service on Sunday? Did he think Mama had been baptized a Catholic and wonder if she’d converted? Did he question whether I’d been baptized at all? The path that Mama and I were treading felt so delicate.

  Sometimes I would see Jacques Francis down by the wharf. We would nod to each other, but we wouldn’t speak. He would never change his mind, I knew that now. But, I had to remind myself, I was an adventurer. Adventures always went wrong before they ended well. It just meant making a different plan. One day I was sitting by Biddles Gate trying to work out what that plan could be when a voice called up to me.

  “You!”

  I looked down. It was the young fisherman who’d been there the day I first saw Jacques Francis. He was standing by an upturned boat. He rubbed his hands together.

  “I’m still seeing your dada about,” he said. “Doesn’t he want to go back with you?”

  “He’s not my father.”

  The fisherman rubbed his hands again. His palms were so black with pitch, I was surprised they didn’t stick together.

  “That’s a pity. I heard he’s got a room full of gold.” He started to climb the steps towards me. “They say he goes out into the river at night and doesn’t need a lantern because he can see in the dark. He swims right out to where the treasure is and when we’re all sleeping, he picks it off the bottom of the river and takes it home for himself.”

  The fisherman’s head was now level with mine. His cheek was streaked with black and there was a lump of pitch knotted in his hair.

  “There’s a richer harvest than eels in that water,” he said. “I’d take a boat and look myself, if I could swim. But if I tried, I’d just be another load of bones sitting on the river bed.” He smiled at me. His teeth looked like he’d been rubbing pitch on them too. “But if someone else could swim, I’d show them where all the gold was and we could share the bounty.”

  I gave him a sideways look. This was just another sailors’ tale.

  “I suppose you know where the boat went down,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said. “Of course I know.”

  “The Sancta Maria and Sanctus Edwardus?”

  He nodded hard. “Yes. That one.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Everyone does. Do you want me to show you?”

  “I…”

  You’re an adventurer, Eve. You need a plan.

  “I can’t swim, but I know someone who can. If there really is treasure, they might be able to help.”

  “Well, how about you come back this evening and bring them with you?”

  This evening? Mama would never come out with me. I’d even stopped reminding her about her promise to George Symons. She said she’d tell him the truth when he came to Southampton, that there was no treasure. But how did she know when she hadn’t even tried to look?

  “She won’t be able to come this evening,” I said.

  “How about you? I can show you where it is.”

  If I went with him, I could find out the exact spot where Mama had to dive. Maybe the fisherman would help me find out how deep it was too, so she’d be able to prepare herself. We didn’t need Jacques Francis after all. We could make our fortune by ourselves. Except…

  “How big is your boat?” I asked.

  He waved his hand towards the quay. “It’s a fishing boat.”

  It was even smaller than a wherry. The river here was calm, though, and there were no arches for it to rush through. Could I take a boat out into the river at night to find treasure? That would be a real adventure! But what if I couldn’t do it? What if I took one step into the boat and had to jump back on to the shore?

  “I’m … not sure. I don’t really like boats.”

  He smiled again. “No matter. If you can’t see where we found the gold, I can still show you some, to prove I’m not lying.”

  “You’ve already found gold?”

  How could he be rich and still be a fisherman? He was wearing patched breeches and stockings and a smock that was stiff with dirt.

  “Just a few coins. They came up in my net. That’s how I know it’s there.”

  Real, actual treasure! What if I could take some and show Mama? Then she’d have to agree to dive.

  “When can I see it?” I asked.

  The fisherman thought. “We need to be away from prying eyes. There are enough rumours already. We don’t want others knowing they’re true. I’ve also got to look after myself. I can’t take you to the place where I keep it, in case you tell other people.”

  “I won’t tell other people.” Apart from Mama, of course. “Would I be able to borrow one of your coins?”

  “Borrow my coins…” He frowned. “I don’t think I could allow that.”

  “It’s just … just so I can show the person who can help us get the rest of it. They might not believe me unless I show them.”

  “I understand. Can I trust you?”

  “Yes!”

  “How about you meet me on the salt marsh, right by the bowling green? I’ll bring some coins and maybe I’ll let you take one away.”

  “Thank you! When shall I be there?”

  “I have to finish with the boat then go and collect my coin. Then I’ll be there.”

  I ran home. Would I tell Mama where I was going? Once I was sure there was treasure, we’d go out together and maybe the picture I’d seen in my head would be true – Mama rising from the water with gold glittering around her neck.

  As I opened Widow Primmer’s door, a cat shot out from inside. It stood by the doorway across the street. It was the grey one with the dark blotch on its back. He’d grown fat in the last month. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the scraps Mama fed him or the rats he hunted down in the yard. He cocked his head and blinked at me as if he knew my secrets.

  Inside, Mama was whisking a pot. The smell of spices wafted towards me. She tipped the pot so I could see inside. There were yellow bits that looked eggy and white liquid that could be milk or cream. I wasn’t sure about the dark brew it was all floating in. I sniffed again.

  “Is that wine?” I asked.

  “I’m making posset,” Mama said. “Claire was up and wandering the room last night. I hope it might calm her. There may be some extra left over if you would like it.”

  “I didn’t know you could make posset,” I said.

  Mama stared at the mess in the pot. “I’m not sure I can either.” She held up the spoon. Egg lumps plopped back into the pan. “Like to taste it?”

  I wiped my finger across the spoon then into my mouth. Mama had used a lot of honey. That was a good thing and it almost made me forget the chewy egg bits.

  “Where’s Widow Primmer?” I asked.

  “Visiting some friends.” Mama laughed. “Now we’re here to care for Claire, she can do as she wishes.” Mama poured the posset into a cup. A few egg lumps dropped in as well. “She said that we can stay as long as we like if we can find employment. Your poppet really did bring us luck!” She smiled, then stared into the cup. “I think I’d better strain this.” She took the sieve from the shelf and drained the posset back into the pan, then once more into the cup.

  “That’s better,” Mama said.

  “Shall I come up with you?” I asked her
.

  “No, Claire is calmer when it’s just me.”

  “Will you be long?”

  “It depends if she wants to talk a while. Are you jealous?”

  “No, Mama. I just … it’s just we told George Symons we’d find the gold. He’ll be here soon, won’t he?”

  Mama held up the pot. “We already have treasure. I’m queen of the kitchen and we are dry and warm with a roof over our head. Do we need more?”

  Yes, Mama. There is a boy with a bag full of brown beads and the bag is getting heavier and fuller. He only has to open his mouth and they will come for you.

  But how could I tell her this when I knew that her happiness could crack any time?

  I said, “This is good for now, Mama, but it might not be for ever.”

  “Nothing is for ever, Eve. But do we want to test God’s patience and be greedy with our luck?” She wrapped a cloth round the hot cup and took a spoon from a jar. “Instead of questioning our destiny, please go and scour the pots. I promised the widow they would be done by the time she returned.”

  Perhaps Mama was right. Perhaps luck flowed through our lives like water through the conduits. If you tried to draw more than your fair share of water, there’d be a washerwoman standing behind you ready to poke you hard in the back and toss you aside. We didn’t want our luck to turn on us. But – what if there was a real chance of something better?

  I went out into the yard. A stack of plates and pots was waiting to be scoured. These weren’t just from yesterday. Mama and the widow must have been saving them for a while. I picked up a large, misshapen pot. The bottom was so burnt it looked like the widow had been making charcoal in it. A couple of plates were crusted with gravy so old it was almost part of the design. How was I going to get this off? Back in Southwark, I’d seen Mama use sand or horsetail she’d picked from the fields by Broadwall. I poked around the yard and checked in the kitchen. I could see neither sand nor horsetail.