The Surfacing

by Cormac James

  In his mind Morgan saw the scene. Her lying on the bed, nightdress hoisted, the folds lying nicely about the bump. The rest of the body has been forgotten. She lies motionless, more than docile, strangely eager for whatever is to come.

  3rd December

  They’d cleared a space in the hold, and brought in two stoves. Even as he stepped inside, his head jerked back, struck. The whole place stank royally of peaches. The jars had exploded months ago, frozen, and now been woken by the heat.

  In semi-darkness, actors were shuffling around the stage. Eventually the lights came up. A domestic scene. Kitty at the table, kneading dough. In an armchair, feet up, reading a newspaper and smoking a pipe, a Polar Bear. Then, a loud banging at the door. Bear and wife jumped up, terrified. Much farce and panic as he lumbered left and right looking for a place to hide. He tried the trunk, the giant pot, even the oven, but in each found another man already in place. Eventually she pointed to the floor. The bear splayed himself like a rug. More banging. She opened the door and in stepped an outrageous mound of furs.

  ‘Darling, is that you?’ she said.

  The furs nodded yes.

  She pointed at the clock, annoyed. ‘Haven’t you seen the time? I was going to send out a search party.’

  Veil, hood, hats, scarves, gloves – layer after layer, it all came off. Underneath, it was DeHaven. She tried to lead him inside, but something held him back – a rope looped around his waist, that stretched out the door. She took hold and began to pull, drew three more men through the door. They were snow-blind, and much was made of them staggering around as if in darkness, stumbling over the bear, and feeling everything – Kitty included – with their hands.

  Morgan sat watching, entranced, like a child, full of fear. The world had shrunk to the size of the stage. By now, the merest gesture there had magical power over him.

  ‘Did you miss me?’ DeHaven said.

  ‘Of course,’ Kitty said.

  ‘Then why didn’t you write?’

  ‘My word isn’t good enough? You have to have it in writing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She began to write, and began to cry, to wipe her eyes, and wrung out her handkerchief – a long stream of water – into a bowl.

  DeHaven made to embrace her, but as soon as he laid a hand on her she yelped.

  ‘Oh darling, what is it?’ he asked with a tender voice.

  ‘My bedsores!’ she moaned. ‘It’s all the time I’ve been spending on my back.’

  Of all the men in the room, only Morgan showed no sign of having understood. He smiled stupidly, that was all. He should never have come along. Accepting their invitation, he was accepting the role they’d assigned him. But now he refused to be drawn any further into that game. He refused to supply them with even the slightest show of possessiveness.

  ‘Well,’ Kitty was saying now, ‘I was expecting you much earlier, but I’ve been keeping your dinner warm.’

  She went to the oven, bent to open it. From the table, DeHaven stared shamelessly at her rump, and rubbed his hands together greedily. ‘Fresh meat!’ he shouted. She came up with a charred lump on a plate, set it before him with a grand smile. Meanwhile, the other men were ransacking the room, eating everything they could lay hands on – and taking every opportunity, of course, to step and stamp on the bearskin rug. To great applause, one was now drinking straight from the lamp. The others were eating candles, and one was eating the pages of a book.

  ‘Easy boys,’ the husband shouted, ‘your bellies aren’t used to such fine fare. It’ll go through you like a dose of salts.’

  ‘Oh, you poor things,’ she suddenly said, ‘you must be starving!’

  She brought out a sugar loaf, that looked vaguely like a little snow-covered rock. The men rushed towards it but DeHaven held them back. With great solemnity he took a little paper Union Jack from his pocket, stuck and saluted it, and claimed the loaf for the Crown.

  The scene went on like this, in fits and starts. From the crowd, wolf-whistles and abuse. Morgan smiled when he was meant to smile, but could do no more. In his mind now there was no unheckled thought.

  ‘Well, if truth be known – ,’ DeHaven was telling Kitty now, ‘ – it was not the hardship that was hardest to bear.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ she said, perfectly naive.

  DeHaven nodded at the bed.

  ‘Do you really consider yourself fully fit for the effort?’ she asked.

  Every man in the audience answered for him.

  She stood up, struck an orator’s pose, and began to declaim: ‘I have no doubt as to the audacity of the undertaking, and the courage required even to attempt it. But however much you might have my admiration, you cannot have my approval. As your commander – as your wife, I mean – I must ask you to defer your hopes, and to reserve your energies for something more useful, something less heroic.’

  ‘I can assure you my condition is very workable,’ DeHaven winked at the audience, with a burlesque, half-crazed smile.

  By now she was feeling him all over. ‘Oh no!’ she shouted, ‘he’s frozen hard!’

  The men cheered lustily, barked suggestions on how to warm him up.

  Centre stage, they had rigged up something to look like a double bed. Those in furs were standing in line, veils of steam rising from their backs. DeHaven got in first, one by one the other men followed, until the bed was absolutely crammed. Settling herself under the covers, Kitty suddenly noticed her many bedfellows, showed her shock, elbowed DeHaven in the ribs.

  ‘Might I see you a moment?’ she said.

  ‘Here I am,’ he said.

  ‘In private, I mean.’

  ‘I’m in my nightshirt, in my own bed. How much more private do you want?’

  She whispered something in his ear.

  ‘But my dear,’ DeHaven explained, ‘we prefer to think of ourselves not as a small crew, rather as a numerous family. And a family where one member has unshared privileges cannot be a happy one.’

  From the crowd came another stream of profanities, reckless, extravagant. On it went, the blatant farce. Let them spit their bile, Morgan thought. It was a hard enough life, and slow, and long. They had earned the right. He saw only too well why they had invited him, but he let them jeer, and made no objection, as though it were merely one more way of passing the time. There was another play to come, apparently, then festivities, and he was readying to slip away.

  On Myer’s wall was Myer’s favourite portrait. Sir John Franklin, with his wife. More than once, Morgan had caught his commander in communion with it. But over the months the faces had retreated behind layers of smoke and grease. Myer had once tried to clean them with alcohol, very clumsily, and by now they were altogether unrecognizable, unless you knew already who they were.

  Now Myer lay there motionless, staring at it. Morgan could not tell, at times, what state the old man was in. Whether he was sleeping or not. Morgan himself, Kitty claimed, slept with his eyes half open. A disconcerting sight, apparently. And now he felt Myer’s eyes on him, wherever he set his chair.

  It’s a great manoeuvre, getting old, getting sick, Morgan told h
im. Perhaps the best move you’ve ever made. Look at you. You’re out of range now. I’ve missed my chance.

  He brought his face right up to Myer’s, mirroring it, nose to nose. Until tonight, he’d always got some kind of response. Often barely a grunt, but an acknowledgement nonetheless. Now Myer lay motionless under the blankets, holding Morgan’s stare, occasionally opening his mouth, but silent, as though waiting for something worth a reply. It was a priestly role, and to Morgan’s mind the man played it well. So Morgan talked, knowing he would not be answered, might not even be heard, probably not be understood. Keep talking, the silence seemed to say. You have not yet got to the heart of the matter. You are still hiding something. You have not said enough.

  Quite a legacy you’re leaving me, Morgan said. I hope you’re proud.

  He leaned closer, elbows on his knees, to examine the stupid grey face. The words had every one evaporated in mid-air, between the chair and the bed. He wondered why he came so often and stayed so long, night after night. At first, of course, it had been to listen to Myer dictate the log. But for the past five days Myer had been too tired or too ill to speak. He wondered why he did not simply sit there reading, ignoring the old man. He wondered why he talked so much – or why he talked at all. It felt like something he’d been waiting to do his whole life. No one had ever been obliged to listen to him before. They had always been the ones talking, he the one sitting in silence, forcing himself to understand.

  It’s not quite the same now, is it? Morgan said. He was goading himself on. He had only to say what he was afraid to say, what he’d been muttering to himself privately all these months.

  The eyes went on staring at the wall. Suddenly a crowd was passing in the corridor and Morgan held his breath the better to hear. He thought he heard the whimsy of a penny-whistle somewhere in the midst of it all. Still the theatricals were going on, though they seemed by now to have broken out of the hold. Then, from Myer’s carriage clock came a lone, chill stroke, calling him back. He glanced again at the man in the bed and saw that the lips were moving, rasping, as though about to speak. Morgan shifted his chair, leaned closer, the better to hear. Then Myer started to cough. He coughed long and hard, as to clear something out of the way. Afterwards, he lay with his eyes closed, in silence. The effort had exhausted him. But weak as he was the old man seemed tougher than ever. Unassailable, physically. He was dying, near-comatose, and apparently indifferent to the fact. What further threat could Morgan pose?

  You think you’re being patient, Morgan said. Maybe you are. But what’s the good of being patient when time is running out?

  There was no answer, of course. He sat back in Myer’s chair. He was weighing a glass of Myer’s brandy in his hand. He was reformulating, more perfectly, all his answers and his jibes, and concocting new ones, for interviews to come.

  He caught himself listening again for movement out in the corridor, but by now the revels were raging all about the ship, and it was impossible to tell if someone was out there or not. He turned to Myer’s mirror, to his own ruined face. The scabs were withering, the edges starting to fleck away. Underneath was a clean, new pink. Part of him would like to have gone up and gone out with them, let himself be herded along with the rest of the crew. They were up there now, the men he’d travelled with. They were out on the ice, dancing about the fire.

  His eyes glanced again at the gap under the door, at the flickering light. He pushed the cork into the bottle, pushed the bottle to the far side of the desk. Then suddenly stood up, turned the key, and flung open the door. It was Kitty, in something like a cardinal’s costume, visibly happy and visibly drunk. This was how she wanted to confront him, he saw. She pushed her way past.

  How’s the patient? she said.

  Much the same, unfortunately.

  Myer was snoring bluntly now. The trunks were full of his clothes. The air full of his very personal smell. She stood closer, looked down at him, with watery eyes. She was swaying slightly on her feet.

  Perhaps you’d better go to bed, Morgan said.

  He’s going to die right there, in that bed, she said. Then it will be your bed, I suppose.

  That’s life, Morgan said. You’re only ever joining the end of the queue.

  Captain Morgan, she said. You’ll have to wear the hat.

  On the rug under her feet was a grotesque stain.

  He’s not giving up easily, is he? she said.

  No, Morgan said. He looked up and looked down again. There were burn marks on the floor all about the foot of the stove.

  You have to admire his spirit, she said. I hope I’ve as much fight in me when my time comes.

  He let her talk. He could not yet muster the courage to send her away. She was a well-built woman, that pregnancy had only improved. Even now, under the silk, her breasts stood straight out from her body, as though strapped to it.

  I’m not proud of what I’ve done, she said. I mean putting you in this position. But when it happened I wanted it to happen. I don’t regret it. I want you to know that.

  What are you talking about? he said, with an anger he’d not expected of himself. Do you mean the play?

  The play? she said. She sounded quite confused. That was only a bit of fun.

  The arms flapped up and down, bird-like. The purple silk was billowing beautifully. Morgan was lounging against the desk. It was as far as he could put himself from her, in that space. The side of his head was leaning against the wall. Two feet from his brain, a torrent of sound was pumping past. It was one o’clock in the morning and he was waiting for a drunk woman to talk herself out. He did not bother to answer or interrupt. It would all be forgotten tomorrow, by the only person who cared.

  The winter is going to be a long one, she said. We are going to be obliged to spend some considerable time in each other’s company. So wouldn’t it be best, don’t you think, if we tried to clear the air?

  He remembered lying with her, naked and sweating, in the dark. She had talked about her life before, her life after. She’d burned all her bridges, she said then. Now she was talking again, and all he could think of was whether or not he would try to take her in his arms. He could not decide. He was distracted by desire. In his mind, as though standing again in her brother’s house, in the bedroom doorway, he saw his naked body lying on top of hers. Flesh feasting on flesh, raw. He was not sure what it was that excited him most – the sight of his own body in full flight, or the sight of hers.

  But this child, she was saying now. It may be a gift. It may be a chance for both of us to . . . redeem ourselves. I know I’m being a bit vague. Perhaps this will help you to understand. She produced a sealed letter from her pocket. She was holding it out. It was fine, bonded paper, his name on the front. He could read it whenever he wanted, she said, and set it on the desk.

  Tomorrow she would take off the simple face she’d painted for tonight’s performance. She would lean into the mirror, begin to rub. The sharper lips and eyes, the darker skin. It would come off in greasy, shit-coloured streaks. The rubbing would go on patiently, pitilessly, until she was done.

  In the end Morgan took her by the elbow and led her out the door. He watched her moving down the dark corridor. She was swaying from side to side, bumping into the walls, as though they were riding
a heavy swell. Under her costume, the hips swung back and forth. Watching that, he could not understand why he’d sent her away.

  Back in Myer’s cabin, he was tempted to shove Myer up against the wall and just lie down by his side. The previous night again he’d barely slept for the pains in his legs, and by now he felt aged and sickened by fatigue. He poured himself a nice-sized brandy and put it inside him. He poured another. He looked at her letter. He’d let her finish her speech without interruption. Now he tore the thing into little pieces. He flipped open the lid of the stove with his fingertips – his fingernails almost – a little knack he had, to avoid getting burned.

  4th December

  The door to Myer’s cabin was warped again, and he had to pull on it with all his weight. Bursting open, it felt like a dramatic entrance, a decisive act. Inside, DeHaven was sitting on the hard chair, facing the bed. Morgan put his shoulder to the door and rammed it shut.

  How long before we’re obliged to say something to the men? he said.

  You know, DeHaven said, while we were away Brooks was laid up five days with the flux, and it was MacDonald running the show. When Brooks finally surfaced he says no one had missed him.

  Morgan could well believe it, even on so small a ship. Since their return, he mostly kept to the officers’ cabin, and in the cabin kept mostly to his bed. He wanted to see no one. He wanted to crawl into a dark corner, to pick at his scabs, root around for blame. Kitty. Myer. The sly tug north. The failure to find any trace of Franklin or Austin. His decision to come back.

  The old man lay there unconscious. At night now, whenever the lard-lamp went out, the blankets froze to the outside wall. Some day soon that bed would be empty, but there was no prize in taking his place. It seemed a punishment as much as a test, to inherit a ship lodged so far north, so deep in the ice, with the worst of the winter still to come. To be obliged to keep them all alive until summer, then somehow get them out.