The tall one was different, the one with hair the colour of sunlight and his arm bandaged to his chest as though holding his heart together. He was beautiful. He didn’t ignore her or look at her as if she were a scrap of river flotsam. He smiled at her, and when she smiled back at him instead of the scowl she gave to everybody else, he offered her a sip from his hip flask.
‘It’ll settle your stomach,’ he promised.
It was like dragon’s breath scorching down through her body, but he was right, the sea’s claws stopped raking her insides for a moment. She took another mouthful of it and felt her head fill with goose down.
‘Better?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘It might help if you looked out at the sea. That’s what we tell new pilots who feel sick, keep an eye on the horizon.’
‘You pilot?’
‘Yes.’
‘You hurt in plane?’
‘This?’ He frowned at the sling. ‘Yes. Damned nuisance.’
‘You safe here.’
The blue of his eyes darkened to the ancient colour of the sea. ‘Yes,’ he said. But the word sounded dead in his mouth.
‘You not happy you safe?’
‘No.’
Yet he laughed. Maya could not understand it. The coils of the white man’s mind twisted in strange directions. Like the way they played with the dog, rolling a ball along the deck for it to chase, instead of plunging the creature into a stew pot. A noisy little bunch of teeth and tail. Whenever it came near her, she hissed at it.
‘Maya,’ the pilot said, ‘this isn’t easy for any of us.’
He was the only one of the white men to use her name. As if she was a person, as if she mattered. She put her lips to the hip flask again, and as she tipped her head back to drink, he said, ‘I’m sorry about your mother.’ She swallowed awkwardly, spluttering some of the liquid down her chin, wasting it. Why did this golden-hair care about her mother? She gave him back his flask, her eyelashes lowered. But he hadn’t finished.
‘How is your brother feeling? He must be sorrowful at your loss, both of you must be.’
She shot a look of surprise at the pilot, then gave him a shy smile. ‘You kind man.’
He was blushing like a girl. ‘If there’s anything,’ he said, ‘that I can do to help you – or your brother – let me know.’
He walked away, and she peeped around the corner of the saloon roof to watch his long legs saunter down to the other end of the boat, the breeze ruffling his blue shirt, his hair flicking up in the sunlight. He looked like a desirable kind of tropical fish.
Maya tried to sleep but the waves were kicking at her, drowning her dreams. When she opened her eyes Razak was seated cross-legged on the deck beside her, watching over her, and there was a stillness to him, a contented shine to his beautiful face that alarmed her.
‘My brother,’ she said as she sat up and stretched her limbs to rid them of the torpor that had slunk into them. This boat living was dull, and her legs longed to run somewhere. Anywhere. ‘I am grateful that you find time to sit with me.’
His black eyes widened uneasily. ‘Maya, you are always my sister.’
‘But your new friends beguile you more. Tuan Hadley with his black and white board. The boy with his dog and his satchel full of toys. The pilot,’ the mention of him brought a smile to her lips, ‘with his talk of planes and his stories of dinners with sultan princes. You like them better.’
He leaned forward and rested his head against hers. The warmth of it, like the dragon’s breath, filled the cold corners inside her.
‘Maya, they will throw me into the stinking harbour as soon as we reach Singapore. But this is a magic time that the spirits have granted us on this boat. We must use it well.’
‘Use it? How? Razak, I am dying here. Our mother’s spirit has poisoned me so that I cannot eat.’
He stroked her hand with his delicate fingers. ‘It is the sea, my sister.’
‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘But our mother’s spirit hides itself in the dark waters. That is why I cannot look at the waves.’
‘If you eat, you will think better.’
‘Already too many thoughts ride on the narrow back of The White Pearl.’
20
That night Fitzpayne ordered sail to be shortened. ‘There’s a hard blow coming,’ he warned.
Connie knew the might of the wind exacts a toll on those who treat it lightly, and she was grateful that when the first squall hit, Fitzpayne had already reefed the mainsail and was setting the storm jib.
‘Mrs Hadley, I would feel better if you were safe down below. It’s not going to be pleasant up here.’
‘Mr Fitzpayne, I am the only experienced sailor you’ve got, so you’re stuck with me. I’m not frightened of bad weather.’ She gave him a quick smile. ‘Anyway, it’s miserable down below in heavy seas.’
He looked relieved, and she realised that he knew he would need her during the long hours of darkness that lay ahead.
‘Don’t say I didn’t offer you the chance,’ he laughed as a wave smashed against the deck, making the boat shudder and sending up spray.
Torrential rain hurtled down on the boat as though trying to drown it. The weight of it battered the hatches and the deck with a noise that pounded in their ears so that Connie and Henry Court had to struggle to hear Fitzpayne’s commands. Kitted out in oilskins, they looked like yellow seals slithering to tighten the stays in the darkness, while sea spray whipped across the deck and tumbled along the scuppers before running back into the sea. The wind had veered and came roaring up from the vast expanses of the Indian Ocean, pitching The White Pearl over on her port bow and dragging at her lines till they howled in protest. Fitzpayne had to fight to keep her on course, but Henry became terrified to move around because the deck tilted at such a ferocious angle that it threatened to tip him into the foaming sea.
Nigel, Teddy and Johnnie had been ordered to remain below, making certain that everything was battened down tight as the wind strengthened and the seas grew higher. A non-stop thrumming and vibration raged in the rigging, fighting with the hiss of advancing breakers and the thud on top of the dinghy and cabin roof each time a cascade of water crashed down on it.
Connie took a moment to go below to check on Teddy, but she needn’t have worried. Despite the close, damp atmosphere in the cabin and the pitching of the boat, he was tucked up in his bunk, fighting to stay in it, eyes wide with excitement. It matched her own – except hers was laced with an adult’s awareness of what could yet happen to them in this storm.
‘So, sailor, not sick yet?’ she smiled at him.
‘No,’ he answered, pride in his young voice. ‘Everyone else is. Even Daddy.’
‘So I hear. The saloon is a shambles.’
She held tight to the lip of his bunk to stay upright as the sea rolled under her.
‘Can I come on deck?’ he begged.
‘No, sweetheart, not this time. It’s too dangerous.’
He wrapped an arm around her neck. ‘I like danger, Mummy.’
Her stomach plummeted, but she laughed and kissed his cheek. ‘There’s enough danger to go around for all of us, these days. Don’t worry, you’ll get your share, I’m sure.’
He grinned at her, but she didn’t want her words to be true, not ever. She stuck her head in the saloon, where only Johnnie had enough strength to greet her with an uneasy grimace and she poured them all some water, spilling half of it. The smell of vomit was strong, and she hurried back on deck. She offered to relieve Fitzpayne at the helm.
‘It’s cold and exhausting work,’ she shouted against the wind. ‘You’ve been at it for hours.’
‘Thank you, but no.’
She was grateful that he didn’t say what they both knew – that to hold a steady course in such seas could be beyond her physical strength. Instead, she gave him Nigel’s hip flask of whisky and went to lash down a stay that had broken loose. She didn’t see how Henry let a wet sheet slip from hi
s fingers, but it snaked through the rain and caught Connie across the neck, knocking her to her knees.A wave broke over her. She pulled herself to her feet, sucking in water instead of air, and she had to wipe salt from her eyes.
She and Nigel had occasionally sailed in bad weather before, but nothing like this and never at night. Yet when she looked at Fitzpayne gripping the helm, the hood of his oilskin was gone and his head was tipped up to the heavens. The rain drove down on him with full force, but his whole face was fiercely alive. The bow yawed suddenly as they slid into a trough and Connie stumbled, crashing against the mainmast and fastening both arms around it.
She peered through the darkness for Henry. Where the hell was Henry? His lurching figure had vanished.
‘Henry?’ she screamed out to Fitzpayne.
‘Below!’ he shouted back against the screech of the wind. ‘I ordered him down. He’s a danger to you.’
‘And Maya?’
‘I threw her down the steps.’
Poor Maya. She must be terrified.
Razak was the only other figure still struggling on deck, his dark face screwed up and barely visible through the rain, but he gave no sign of fear. As a giant wave reared up and towered above them, Connie yelled at him to hold tight to something. Instantly Fitzpayne put the helm up and ran dead before the wind to take it true on the stern, but when it crashed down on top of them, battering their senses, it was her own grip on the mast that loosened. She was flung aft, and would have been slammed against the mizzen if Fitzpayne had not reached an arm out of the darkness and seized her. He pulled her close, and she felt her fingers grasp at his slippery oilskin. He kept her upright until she found her feet on the heaving deck.
He said something that she didn’t hear – but she could read his lips, even in the blackness of the storm: I don’t want to lose you.
‘You won’t get rid of me that easily,’ she shouted, ‘but maybe we should heave to and try to sit out the storm.’
‘I’m running for shelter,’ he bellowed in her ear.
‘Where?’
‘A creek I know.’
She nodded as rain gushed off her nose and chin. ‘Be quick.’
He laughed. Actually laughed, showing large, capable teeth. She could feel the joy and exhilaration surging within him. If her hands had not been clinging to his chest, she would have hit him.
*
How he found the creek, Connie would never know. It was an impossible task – Fitzpayne must possess a sixth sense in his brain, like birds. He eased the sheets and altered to a new course in the darkness, running before the storm with the wind on the quarter, until Connie felt The White Pearl take a breath and make for the briefest of breaks in the solid black line of the coast.
Along much of the shore of the Malay Peninsula, the jungle and endless mangroves shouldered their way right down to the water’s edge, unwilling to yield even a strip of beach to the greedy sea. But a small, determined river had wound its way through the inland mountains down to the coast, bringing with it the mud and smells of the jungle through which it had carved a path. Where it flung itself into the sea, its current had excavated a shallow, sickle-shaped bay in the northern bank, so that at times like this, when the sea had lost its mind, it could sit quietly behind the narrow strip of mangroves that divided the bay from the raging waves and bide its time.
It was in this bay that The White Pearl found shelter in the lee of the land. She seemed to shake herself, and settle at anchor with a discreet sigh that allowed Connie’s pulse to quieten. She scrambled down the steps, her oilskins dripping puddles on the floor, to check on the five passengers below. The saloon felt dismal, not just because of the rain and the storm, but because Connie could sense their fear, fine droplets of it in the air. The foul stink of vomit mingled with it, and Connie saw that both Harriet and Maya were still sunk with their heads in bowls. Maya was huddled in a corner, her skin the colour of seaweed. Connie gently touched her head and heard her answering wail of misery.
The others were seated on the padded benches around the table. Astonishingly, Teddy was there, asleep, curled in a ball with his hand still clutching his father’s so tight that she could see the red weals on Nigel’s fingers. Nigel was talking in an undertone with Johnnie opposite him, but stopped abruptly when she walked in and looked up guiltily. Had he been talking about her? Telling Johnnie things that should not be told? She felt a coldness slide inside her. The dog, snuggled up on Nigel’s lap, was the only one who greeted her with a smile.
‘We’ve taken shelter,’ Connie announced. ‘Mr Fitzpayne has found us a small creek, and we’ll wait out the storm here.’
‘Thank God!’ Henry responded. ‘About bloody time! I thought you were going to drown us.’ He was sitting stiffly, eyes fixed ahead, knuckles white where his fists clenched the table.
Harriet lifted her head from her bowl with a watery smile. ‘He doesn’t mean it, Connie. He’s …’ She shrugged, as though words were alien things she couldn’t handle right now, and returned to her bowl.
Johnnie pushed himself to his feet, stumbling as the hull bucked under him, and he held out a hand to Connie. He took her wet arm and steered her into his seat at the table. ‘You must be exhausted. Sit down, I’ll make you some strong tea. You need it. We’re grateful to you, Connie, for all your labours on deck.’ But his tone sounded more depressed than grateful. ‘Nigel and I were saying earlier what bloody useless crocks we are, just when …’
‘No, Johnnie, don’t. Neither of you can help it.’
For the first time Nigel spoke. But instead of looking at her, he was gazing down at his sleeping son and the way his small fingers slotted so trustingly in among his own. ‘There are a lot of things we can’t help.’
The energy of the storm was still in Connie’s blood, and the voice of the wind in her ears. She sat alone at the table in the saloon. The others had gone to their beds. Nigel had carried his son to his bunk, but Connie wasn’t ready to turn in yet. She had no idea what time of night it was, or how long she had to wait for dawn.
Her mind wouldn’t keep still. It was as if the waves had washed through her brain and stirred up her thoughts with their salty fingers. For no reason at all she kept seeing Shohei Takehashi’s face as clear as the full moon, leaning over her shoulder, not open-mouthed with teeth streaked with scarlet, as it had been when she had enclosed it in a pillowcase. No. It was smiling, respectful and patient, as when he first said to her, ‘Will you dance?’ Quiet, silken words that had tempted her soul.
What if she had said, ‘No. Thank you, but no’? Would she be different now? Would she be a person without an iron spike in her chest, maybe even one who could sleep at night? She couldn’t remember what that felt like. A person who could talk and laugh without …
‘Here, this will calm you down.’
Fitzpayne placed a glass of amber liquid in front of her. It immediately started to slide sideways as the table tilted with the movement of the sea, and Connie wrapped a hand around it to keep it steady. She hadn’t been aware of him descending the steps, but when she looked up at his brooding figure, she had a feeling he had been standing there for some time, watching her.
‘Drink,’ he said. ‘It will help you sleep.’
How did he know?
Connie woke. Her neck was stiff, her shoulders ached and for one alarming moment she had no idea where she was. A wet tongue licked her cheek, and Pippin’s unwholesome breath puffed encouragingly in her face.
‘All right,’ she groaned, and with eyes narrowed to slits she struggled to sit up, which only encouraged the dog to perch on her lap and sweep its warm tongue over her chin. She fondled his little head and recognised that she was still in the saloon, though her brain seemed to be performing some kind of thumping war dance. Christ, she must have fallen asleep on the bench in her wet clothes. Her mouth tasted like sand, dry and scratchy and riddled with salt. Daylight was streaming down on her from the hatches above, but it was a dull, leaden light that told her
the storm clouds still lingered, the creek water choppy under the boat. Where was everyone?
There was no clattering on the hatches, which meant the rain had ceased, so at least that was something. She meant to stand up. To find where Teddy was, and to see if Nigel’s leg needed attention. But instead she let her forehead drop to the table, the wooden rail digging into her ribs, her hands curled around Pippin on her knees, and she lay like that without moving while her thoughts tried to rearrange themselves. Everything had knotted into a confused tangle but slowly, thread by thread, she started to tug them apart.
‘More whisky?’
She jerked upright. ‘What?’
‘I thought you might need a hair of the dog.’ It was Fitzpayne. He was holding out the bottle and trying not to smile too much.
‘What?’
He sat down on the bench opposite her and the boat swayed. Only then did she notice the empty glass at her elbow. It had a dry amber crust at the bottom. He tipped an inch of whisky into it.
‘Drink up,’ he ordered. ‘You’ll feel better after that.’
Dimly she recalled sitting here on the bench last night after the others had gone to bed. Images, blurred and watery, started to come into focus: Fitzpayne’s broad features opposite her, his weathered hand pouring whisky after whisky into a glass. How many times? Once? Twice? More? His thick eyebrows rising when she confessed to him she had once swum naked across the river in Palur and back, at night under the stars. Why, oh, why on earth had she told him that? His grey eyes had been fixed with amusement on hers, and he had started to ask questions.
What questions? What answers had she given?
Damn the man! And damn herself!
‘No more whisky,’ she said huskily.
‘As you wish,’ he responded with a chuckle, and drank it down.
The White Pearl Page 25