The Locket of Dreams

by Belinda Murrell

  ‘Nell, wait here,’ Charlotte whispered. ‘I will be back soon.’

  ‘The captain said we must stay here,’ murmured Nell, alarmed at the thought of Charlotte leaving her.

  ‘All our precious things are being flooded in the cabin,’ Charlotte replied. ‘I have to save them.’

  ‘Be careful, Charlotte,’ Nell begged.

  It was incredibly difficult to walk as the ship bucked and plunged beneath her feet.

  Sophie, following behind, found it hard to fly and was lurched right through a cabin wall. She caught a quick glimpse of a woman moaning in her bunk, then was flung right through the wall again into the corridor.

  Outside the saloon, the corridor was awash with seawater sloshing back and forth. Several crew members were working with buckets and cloths to mop it up.

  ‘Watch out, miss,’ yelled one of the crew. ‘You shouldn’t be out here. Go back to the saloon.’

  Charlotte swayed and clutched one hand to her stomach, and the other up to her mouth.

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ she groaned.

  The steward waved her away impatiently. They had enough mess to contend with, without another vomiting child.

  Charlotte hurried to the cabin she shared with Nell, sliding and slipping on the sloping, sloshy floor. Seawater had poured under the cabin door, forming a huge puddle on the floor. The trunks and carpetbags were sitting in the midst of the puddle, completely soaked around their bases.

  Charlotte started with the carpetbags, fighting the ship’s unpredictable motion as she worked. She piled the most precious items on her bunk, at the back of it so they would not slide to the floor.

  Thankfully the treasures were dry: the carved oak box, her parents’ portraits, the book of poetry. Charlotte took a moment to gaze at each of the portraits of her parents before she packed them away. Charlotte could feel the warmth of her mother’s locket, nestled inside her bodice.

  The treasures were wrapped carefully in her shawl and she knotted them securely to the bunk post, under the bedclothes.

  The clothes at the bottom of the carpetbags were saturated but Charlotte could do nothing about that now. She hung the carpetbags on hooks on the wall then started on the trunks. Everything at the bottom was wet, including many of the precious books.

  She stacked all the books and sketch paper on the top bunk, then carefully packed them under her blankets, tucking the bedcovers in firmly to hold them securely in place. The wet books were wrapped in dry clothes and packed right at the foot of her bunk, under the blankets.

  A sudden lurch sent a pile of books tottering towards the floor. Sophie grabbed them and stopped them from falling into the puddle on the floor, pushing them back on the bunk.

  At last Charlotte had saved all she could. The trunks were too heavy to move, and the clothes could be dried out later. She felt exhausted, but relieved with her efforts. She picked up Wuthering Heights and carried it back to the saloon to read to Nell.

  Nell was lying on the bench looking tired and ill.

  ‘I am back, Nell,’ whispered Charlotte gently. ‘I saved all the treasures and most of the books, although a few are soaked.’

  Nell looked up and smiled wanly.

  ‘Good, Charlotte,’ Nell replied listlessly. ‘Sorry, I could not help – my head aches dreadfully and my body feels like lead.’

  ‘You lie with your head on my lap, Nell, and I will read to you for a while. It will take our minds off this terrible storm.’

  Charlotte read in a clear, soft voice, ignoring the moans and cries, thumps and crashes around her. Sophie and some of the other children had come closer to listen to her, and they seemed comforted by the magic of the story and her steady voice.

  A particularly loud crash sounded and the very timbers of the ship shuddered as if straining apart. The ship listed dangerously to the starboard side, the floor slanting steeply. Sophie braced herself against Charlotte and Nell, stopping them from sliding.

  Faint cries of alarm, shouted orders, a clanging bell and the chopping of wood were heard over the howling wind, lashing rain and smashing waves.

  ‘The mast,’ cried one woman. ‘It must have gone over.’

  ‘No,’ retorted a man with gingery whiskers. ‘It sounded lower. It must be the hull stoving in.’

  ‘We’re lost!’ shrieked a large woman, who, ineffectually comforted by her companion, proceeded to have loud hysterics.

  Charlotte continued to read aloud as calmly as she could, encouraging Nell and the other children to concentrate on her reading, rather than the chaos around them.

  Another loud crash. The ship staggered and jarred, jerking to the opposite side, throwing people and objects to the floor. The ship wallowed back and forth, finally bobbing at a more natural angle. People picked themselves up, rubbing bruises and exclaiming loudly.

  A soaked Captain Jamieson bustled into the saloon to report on the damage. He took in the scene with interest: the matron having hysterics, the adults animatedly discussing the potential damage and Charlotte calmly reading to her entourage of children.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the captain began. ‘The boom snapped, dragging down much of the rigging, but we’ve chopped it free with axes, so for the moment we’re safe.

  ‘However, the storm shows no sign of abating so it’ll be a long, rough night,’ Captain Jamieson continued. ‘I suggest you retire to your bunks, say some strong prayers and think of us. The crew and I’ll be spending the night on deck battling the storm.’

  The captain grinned ruefully at the passengers – who were uncomfortable and frightened, but warm and dry – then steeled his shoulders and strode out to face the storm.

  ‘Come to bed, Nell,’ encouraged Charlotte.

  Sophie and the other children reluctantly stretched and stood up. Charlotte helped Nell stagger back to their cabin, undress and climb into the bottom bunk. Sophie flitted up to the top bunk to perch on Charlotte’s pillow. She could hear and see everything from here, but was safely out of the way.

  ‘Sorry, Nell, I will have to sleep with you tonight,’ said Charlotte. ‘My bunk is full of books.’

  ‘Good,’ Nell said and smiled bravely, as Charlotte tied the ribbon of Nell’s nightcap over her long red curls. ‘It is not so frightening if you are with me.’

  ‘Let us say our prayers, then I will tell you one of Nanny’s stories to help you sleep,’ Charlotte offered, as she took off her petticoats.

  ‘Lovely,’ Nell sighed, tossing under the bedcovers, her legs curled up. ‘Could you tell the story about the tailor and the water horse?’

  When Charlotte had changed into her nightdress and nightcap and said her nightly prayers with Nell, she blew out the candle.

  The darkness closed in all around. The ship tossed and rolled wildly. Outside, the ship creaked and screamed, tussling the storm. Charlotte lay back on the pillow, with one arm tucked under her head, staring up into the darkness.

  ‘Once upon a time, on the Isle of Islay, there lived a laird who was very miserly,’ Charlotte began. Nell snuggled down deeper under the covers, soothed by the words.

  While Charlotte and Nell usually spoke with the English vowels of their parents, Charlotte automatically adopted the stronger Scottish brogue of Nanny to give the folk tale its comforting rhythm and cadence.

  ‘Laird McAllister would ne’er pay full price for anything and was always scheming how he could cheat his crofters and retainers. One day Laird McAllister decided he needed a new pair of trews, the trousers the Scots wore many years ago.

  ‘So he called for the village tailor, Robbie McGregor, to come and measure him up. As usual, Laird McAllister was too mean to pay for anything, but had a scheme to cheat the tailor.

  ‘“How much for these new trews, Robbie McGregor?” the laird asked. Robbie McGregor’s heart sank, for he knew that Laird McAllister would try to cheat him, and he had a wife and six wee bairns to feed.

  ‘Robbie named a fair price for a good day’s work – enough to p
ut oatmeal bannocks and barley broth on the table that night. The laird grinned.

  ‘“Well, that seems high, McGregor, but I need these trews by dawn,” claimed Laird McAllister. “I’ll pay thee double if you have them to me before the sun comes up.”

  ‘Robbie McGregor’s heart leapt with joy. For that much silver, there would be braised venison for the kailpot.

  ‘“O’ course, me laird. I will work all night,” Robbie crowed. “I will make ye the finest trews a laird e’er wore.”

  ‘“Not so fast,” said Laird McAllister. “My only condition is ye must sew my trews inside the kirk tonight. Not one stitch must ye make before the sun sets, and not one stitch must ye make outside the hallowed kirk. If the trews are not finished by dawn, I pay thee naught.”

  ‘Robbie McGregor turned pale as a ghaistie, for he knew that a terrible beast lived under the kirk. On the stroke o’ midnight a huge water horse climbed up through the trapdoor and devoured all the creatures he found.

  ‘But Robbie McGregor was a brave and clever man, and had eight mouths to feed, so Robbie shook hands with Laird McAllister to seal the bargain.

  ‘Robbie took the laird’s measurements and hurried home. He carefully cut out the material and prepared all he would need into a neat bundle.

  ‘Gravely he ate the delicious broth his wife had cooked, kissed his bairns and bade them farewell.

  ‘His guid wife shook with fear when she saw him gather up his bundle, and clung to him tightly.

  ‘“Robbie, where are ye gaeing so late, when ’tis nearly dark and time for bed?” she begged him.

  ‘“’Tis naught, my bonnie wife,” Robbie replied calmly. “Do no’ fret. I have work to do for my laird by dawn, and he will pay me well for it.”

  ‘“That can mean nothing guid,” his wife retorted angrily. “My laird is the meanest man who e’er walked the earth, and ne’er pays well. There must be mischief about it.”

  ‘“Aye, my love,” Robbie replied. “But I must gae with all speed. My very life may depend upon it.”

  ‘So Robbie ran to the lonely kirk. It was late on a bonnie summer evening and the sun was setting. ’Twas an hour till the kirk clock struck midnight.

  ‘Robbie dragged a heavy chest o’er the trapdoor in the kirk floor and climbed on top, with his bundle. He set out his needles and thread, the cut-out trews and scissors. From his perch, Robbie could see out the western window to the sinking red sun.

  ‘The moment the sun sank below the rim o’ the world, Robbie began to sew, his fingers flying. The seams grew straight and true, the stitches tiny. His legs cramped, his arms ached and his fingers bled, but still he sewed as fast as he could.

  ‘The hour till midnight flew by faster than his fingers could sew, and his heart leapt with terror when he heard the first stroke o’ midnight. He sewed faster, his stitches longer and not so neat, the hem a wee bit crooked. The last stroke o’ midnight sounded, the trapdoor creaked beneath him, and still Robbie sewed.

  ‘The chest moved. The chest heaved beneath him as something huge and terrible under the kirk floor fought to break free. The chest lurched and slid across the floor, but still Robbie sewed. He was on the last hem now, and his fingers whirred through the air faster than e’er.

  ‘The last stitch was sewn as the beast hurled the chest in the air. Robbie snipped the thread with his scissors and fled as fast as his cramping legs could take him, all the way to Laird McAllister’s castle on the hill. With a whinny o’ rage, the water horse escaped and gave chase, galloping through the streets o’ the village, his giant hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones.

  ‘Laird McAllister’s men heard the commotion and threw open the gatehouse door for Robbie just as the water horse arrived. Laird McAllister arose from his bed, shocked to hear that Robbie McGregor had arrived with a monstrous water horse close on his tail.

  ‘“My laird,” said Robbie with a bright sparkle in his eyes, “here are your new trews, sewn from first stitch to last in the kirk this very night. I have come to collect my double payment, as promised.”

  ‘Laird McAllister bluffed and dawdled but had no recourse but to pay the promised sum. Robbie bunked down in the servants’ hall, well pleased with himself.

  ‘Laird McAllister swore revenge on Robbie McGregor. He climbed up on the battlements and paced the walls, planning how to ambush Robbie in the morning on his way home. In his fury he kicked a pebble, which hurtled off the walls and bounced down to the depths below.

  ‘The water horse was prowling around the castle walls and smelt the anger and the meanness from the laird above. In one great leap the water horse hurtled through the air, scooped up Laird McAllister and devoured him in one bite, then galloped back to his cavern under the lonely kirk.

  ‘To this day, you can still see the trews o’ Laird McAllister in the great hall of the castle on the Isle of Islay, the hems a little crooked and speckled with stains from the bloodied fingers of Robbie McGregor. And nae-one in those parts will walk near the kirk on a moonlit night, in case the great water horse gallops out and devours them too.’

  Charlotte stopped and breathed deeply. It was almost a shock for Nell and Charlotte to realise that they were back in their narrow bunk, in a dark and wildly tossing cabin of a ship in a storm at sea. The story had seemed so real that the bucking motion and keening sounds had seemed like the struggles of the water horse to be free.

  ‘Thank you, Charlotte,’ whispered Nell, so faintly it was almost breathing. ‘I love that story.’

  ‘That was wonderful,’ murmured Sophie, but no-one could hear her.

  Nell fell asleep and was soon breathing heavily. Charlotte lay awake for what seemed like hours, cradling Nell in her arms. Charlotte felt comforted and reassured. The story of Robbie McGregor reminded her that a man or a child who was clever and brave could outwit and vanquish even the most frightening monster.

  The next morning, the storm gradually quietened and the tired crew laboured to right the ship. The storm was over, but Nell was worse.

  Nell’s body burnt with fever, her head pounded with pain and her throat was raw. She vomited constantly and could not keep down even a sip of water.

  ‘Nell, Nell, are you all right?’ asked Charlotte, feeling Nell’s fiery forehead.

  ‘Mama,’ called Nell weakly, thrashing free from the sheets. ‘Mama?’

  Charlotte set off to find some help. She begged a jug of fresh water and some cloths from a stewardess.

  Nell seemed weaker when she returned and did not answer Charlotte’s entreaties, but Charlotte wet the cloths and dribbled water into Nell’s mouth, and bathed her face and hands.

  Charlotte searched the ship urgently for the surgeon and found him below tending to dozens of seasick travellers.

  ‘Please, sir,’ Charlotte begged, ‘my sister is very ill.’

  ‘Everyone on board this ship is very ill,’ the surgeon replied impatiently, gesturing to the dozens of foul-smelling passengers who were lying prostrate, moaning or violently vomiting into buckets.

  ‘Please, we are all alone,’ Charlotte insisted. ‘She has a high fever and is delirious. She is only eleven and very weak. I am frightened she might even die.’

  The surgeon patted her kindly on the shoulder.

  ‘I will come as soon as I can,’ he assured her. ‘Keep sponging her down with cool water to lower her temperature, and dribble small amounts of water down her throat to keep her hydrated, even if she keeps vomiting. Which cabin are you in?’

  But the doctor did not come, that day or the next. Charlotte worked to nurse her, emptying the sick bucket, sponging Nell down, fetching fresh water, giving her tiny sips.

  Nell lay on the bunk, so frail and thin that she looked like she might snap. Charlotte had never felt so alone in her life.

  ‘Nell,’ Charlotte begged, tears welling up, ‘please do not leave me. Please do not die and leave me all alone. I could not bear it.’

  Nell tossed, then sank further into her fever.

&n
bsp; Sophie felt as though her heart would break too. She felt so helpless. Nell could so easily die on this ship in the middle of the ocean. Sophie had visions of the tiny body being wrapped in canvas and dropped over the side of the ship into a watery grave.

  What could they do?

  Sophie cuddled next to Nell on one side, Charlotte on the other.

  ‘Hold on, Nell,’ whispered Sophie right in her ear. ‘Hold on, don’t give up.’

  Charlotte felt a faint stirring of hope. Suddenly she didn’t feel all alone on this vast sea. She would fight to save Nell with every weapon she had. Charlotte took Nell’s hot hand in her own and started to whisper stories to her, partly to keep the silence away and partly to remind Nell that she existed, to make her keep her tenuous hold on life.

  She told Nell stories of their childhood and about their parents; she told her tales about the great Mackenzie battles and how Bonnie Prince Charlie had hidden in Castle Dungorm until the English blew it to ruins. Charlotte retold Nanny’s fairytales about brownies and elves, changelings and selkies. She talked until her voice was hoarse.

  And all the time, Charlotte kept sponging Nell with cool cloths, dribbling water down her throat and watching over her every breath. At last, after two days, Charlotte was exhausted and fell asleep curled beside Nell.

  Then Sophie took over. Sophie stroked Nell’s scorching forehead, face and hands with her cold ethereal hands. She lay beside her, cuddling Nell with her chilly ghostly body.

  All the time, she whispered stories of Australia and all the wonders Charlotte and Nell would find when they arrived. Stories of the animals – the koalas, kangaroos, wombats, emus, dingoes, possums, echidnas and platypuses – the exotic flowers and trees, the people and the land.

  ‘The platypus has a bill and webbed feet like a duck, sleek fur like a seal, and lays eggs,’ murmured Sophie. ‘When the first stuffed platypus was sent back to London from Australia, the scientists thought it was a practical joke – an animal stitched together from the parts of other animals.’