‘Like a rock, eh?’ whispered John Beck. ‘Not many Methodist ministers have muscles like these, I can tell you. I’m very proud of them, as you can see.’
‘They’re very nice,’ I replied, and instead of removing my hand at this point, I allowed it to slide down to his forearm, which was also of pleasing firmness and strength.
‘I’ve been wanting you to admire them all night,’ he continued softly. ‘It’s been rather chilly in my shirtsleeves too.’
He was smiling at me and his eyes were shining in the darkness, and at that point, I’m afraid that something within me seemed to seize up in a kind of panic. Any girlish gaiety that I had been blessed with at birth had stiffened and stuck from lack of use, and although I was only nineteen years of age, I felt unable to rise to the obvious demands of the occasion.
‘I’m sorry. I’m no good at this. I can’t do it,’ I said, lurching abruptly to my feet.
Swiftly he reached up and pulled me back down again.
‘Do what?’
‘This light-hearted banter between the sexes that you are obviously hoping for.’
‘Of course you can do it! You’ve been doing it extremely well up to this moment.’
‘That is kind of you to say, but I am only too aware of my shortcomings. And although I’ve been trying to picture you in my mind as Uncle Aleck –'
‘What?’ he said. ‘Please don’t do that. Please don’t picture me in your mind as Uncle Aleck. Why in God’s name have you been doing that?’
‘Because that way I might perhaps be less stilted in my conversation.’
‘No, no. I must insist that you stop it at once. It is undoing all of my good work with my muscles.’
‘But you see . . .' I hesitated for a moment, but then all of a sudden it came tumbling out. ‘My fear is that you view me as some earnest, bespectacled whale painter – a bluestocking – which of course is not helped by the fact that I was wearing my blue stockings when we first met, but only because I had not been expecting company, let alone a Methodist minister –'
‘Former Methodist minister.’
‘– otherwise, of course, I would have been wearing my black silks –'
‘Yes, but putting aside the Methodist minister bit for the moment,’ said John Beck, ‘and even the much more interesting question of your black silks – do you think your father would mind terribly if I kissed you?’
‘Oh!’ I exclaimed. ‘Yes, possibly he would mind terribly.’
‘What do you think he would do? Would he harpoon me?’
‘Oh, I doubt he would waste a harpoon on you.’
‘Ah! You bantered!’
‘No, no. That wasn’t banter. That was the truth. He is very careful in his use of harpoons.’
‘I see. Is he looking?’
‘Looking?’
‘At us.’
‘No.’
‘Then dare we have just one little kiss?’
Rendered unable to speak, I simply nodded; he leaned forward and kissed me tenderly on the lips. And because I did not resist, he kissed me again, longer and more tenderly this time. Until finally I opened my eyes and found him gazing at me.
‘Please don’t tell me you were imagining Uncle Aleck,’ he whispered.
‘Oh no!’ I replied. ‘No, I wasn’t at all –'
And at this moment, a fierce gust of wind whipped around us, pulling a sheet of tin from the roof of the try-works. It crashed down upon some empty barrels, causing them to thunder down the slipway and setting the dogs at once to barking.
‘Get the boats – we’re going out!’ my father shouted from the end of the jetty.
The whale men cried out in disbelief; various epithets were tossed about in bitter disappointment; and yet they clambered to their feet and moved towards the boats. Such was the loyalty my father inspired.
‘Wait!’ I cried. ‘I’ll get some food for you! Dan, fill the water bags!’
‘What’s happening? Why are we going out?’ asked John Beck.
‘Because the wind has come up!’
‘But what does that mean, that the wind has come up?’
‘We’ll lose the whale! It’ll blow out to sea – oh, shut up, you stupid dogs, from barking!’
In all that commotion, I must have dropped the shell that he gave to me. The next morning, upon realising my carelessness, I went down to the beach and spent several hours combing the area thoroughly. I found a multitude of spindle shells in the vicinity, and because I could not be entirely sure which was the one he had given me, I have kept four of which seemed to most closely resemble my memory of it.
Although, as I say, I cannot be entirely sure, I feel that A may be the shell that he gave to me, as it could be argued that A is slightly prettier and more delicate in its ridges than the other three. Then again, C has a more elegant fold to its opening, and is very softly coloured in this area. D is not really a contender as it is somewhat battered, and I cannot believe that he would have pressed that upon me so ardently; however, as it is a spindle shell and was found closest to the log on which we were sitting, I feel I must include it. All in all, it is a great pity that I did not take the trouble to examine the shell more carefully when he gave it to me.
(Of course, the thought occurs to me now that he may have simply picked up the nearest shell and pretended that he had been saving it up to give to me. Perhaps he had hastily wrapped it up in the bandages as he saw me approach. But no, I cannot really believe this of him, for he seemed so genuine in his appreciation of its prettiness, and so ardent in the manner in which he pressed it upon me. I do not understand this impulse I have developed in later life whereupon some small part of me seems to want to find fault in my memories of him, to ‘burst the bubble’, as it were.)
Sitting Tight
As a rule, a dead whale takes twenty-four hours to bloat with gas and rise to the surface; in fact, sometimes, for unknown reasons, it takes longer than this. So the reader may wonder why my father insisted they go out when the black whale had been dead for only a matter of hours. The only answer I can proffer is that his fear of losing the whale was so great that he felt it necessary to take every precaution possible. Thus, in the bitter cold and darkness, the weary men rowed back across the bay and, with some difficulty, finally located the marker buoys bobbing upon the surface. The Killers had long since finished their feast and departed. The carcass of the whale lurked deep down below. Arthur Ashby held up his lantern. He tugged at the marker buoys, and peered into the black water.
‘Looks like the anchors are holding all right,’ he announced. Not wishing to look as if he did not wish to be there, he perhaps made his voice sound a little overly cheerful. The men looked hopefully at my father. Perhaps they could now row back home again?
‘We’ll sit tight,’ said my father.
A low murmur of frustration went round the whalers. They did not fancy the thought of keeping watch over the sunken remains of a dead whale. They would rather have been asleep in their bunks, especially since the rum was wearing off.
‘Excuse me for saying so, boss,’ said Arthur Ashby. Being my father’s harpooner and right-hand man, Arthur was the only one who would dare to say what he was about to: ‘The old girl’s not going to gas up till tomorrow at the earliest. We might as well –'
‘We’ll sit tight,’ repeated my father, with such a firmness of manner that Arthur deemed it better not to press the point.
And so the long wait commenced.
The great gust of wind that had knocked the sheet of tin off the roof of the try-works had been the harbinger of a biting north-westerly gale, bringing with it squalls of icy sleet. The whale men hunched over and huddled together; they pulled up their collars, pulled their hats down low over their ears and buried their hands deep within their pockets. Any part of their anatomy exposed to the elements began to turn blue and stiffen w
ith the cold.
‘We shall have frostbite of the nose,’ said Salty grimly. ‘And it shall not be pretty.’
This prompted Bastable to recount the story of the Parisian streetwalker he had once met. It had been a cold night and, moved by her plight, he had taken her to a small cafe that she might warm her innards with a bowl of pea soup. For in spite of her occupation, maintained Bastable, she was the most elegant and gracious lady you could ever hope to meet. In the course of their conversation, she assured him that although her work exposed her to many dubious characters, she was never afraid, for she knew how to protect herself. If any man tried to force himself upon her, she would simply bite his nose off. Then she would spit it at him.
‘Spit what at him?’ asked someone who had not been following the story closely.
‘His nose.’
‘But the nose is all gristle!’ argued Albert Thomas Senior. ‘It would be next to impossible to bite it off!’
‘I am only repeating what she told me,’ said Bastable. ‘She herself had a good set of teeth.’
Generally speaking, the whale men were not so fortunate in the way of teeth, and so they refrained from commenting on this.
‘Furthermore,’ continued Bastable, ‘after having his nose bitten off, the offender would now find himself stigmatised by his crime. If he attempted to stroll through the boulevards of Paris sans nose, then all would recognise at once the foul nature of his deed.’
‘Why are you telling us this story?’ demanded Salty. ‘Are you saying that everyone in Eden will assume we have had our way with your Parisian prostitute, simply because we have had the misfortune of losing our noses to frostbite?’
Some of the men considered it unlikely that Bastable had ever spoken to a Parisian prostitute in the first place, and thus there was probably little to worry about. Nonetheless it was decided that a notice could be placed in the Eden Observer and South Coast Advocate to clarify the issue, if indeed it became necessary. My father, who had not entered the discussion up to this point, spoke up to say that, for God’s sake, no one was going to lose their nose to frostbite, for to do so they would have to be a lot colder.
‘I assure you,’ said Bastable, ‘the only occasion on which you will find me colder will be at my funeral.’
‘Hear, hear!’ the men grumbled.
‘In which case, you need not worry about the frostbite,’ said my father.
The men slumped into silence. Another squall arrived, the sleet as piercing as if each icy drop had been sharpened on a whetstone. The men hunkered down into their sodden clothing, their misery complete. When the squall had passed, Salty shifted in his seat and shook the water out of the brim of his hat. To John Beck’s surprise, he began to sing:
‘Shallow Brown, you’re going to leave me.’
It was slow and solemn, like a dirge. His rich baritone voice seemed to cut through the howl of the wind. The older whale men responded with a mournful refrain:
‘Shallow, Shallow Brown,’ they intoned.
‘Shallow Brown,’ sang Salty, ‘don’t ne’er deceive me.’
‘Shallow, Shallow Brown,’ averred the men.
‘Ye’re going away across the o-ocean.’
‘Shallow, Shallow Brown.’
‘You’ll ever be my heart’s devotion.’
‘Shallow, Shallow Brown.’
And then the song was over. The men had sung it without comment, and indeed without looking at each other. If anything, their gaze seemed fixed upon the water, as if it was the carcass deep below who might deceive them, who might go away across the ocean.
‘All right,’ said my father. ‘We’ll go ashore and light a fire.’
They rowed ashore to a rocky and inhospitable beach, where after the most treacherous landing, in which their boats very nearly capsized in the breakers, they staggered ashore and found a patch of sand protected by a rocky overhang. Here they succeeded in lighting a small fire with what little bit of dampish driftwood they could scratch up in the darkness. Around these thin flames they huddled. They ate some salted beef from their tuckerbags and then almost immediately fell asleep, curled up tightly together on the wet sand. Only John Beck and Salty remained awake, and they sat silently staring into the flames, occasionally rearranging the burning embers in a bid to improve the fire’s heat. After a while, Salty produced a small flask of rum, which up to this point he had kept secreted on his person. He offered it to John Beck, who gratefully accepted.
‘Tell me, Father,’ said Salty, as he watched him take a swig. ‘John Wesley – was he not the founder of Methodism?’
‘Yes,’ said John Beck. ‘That’s correct.’
The rum felt good and warming. He passed the bottle back to Salty, who himself took a fulsome draught.
‘Unfamiliar as I am with his teachings,’ said Salty, ‘I believe that Wesley held some pretty strong opinions regarding – well, how can I put it – licentious behaviour.’
‘That’s correct,’ John Beck acknowledged.
‘By which I mean, gambling, fornicating, turf plunging; the drinking of hard liquor and so forth.’
‘Yes, yes, I am clear on the definitions of licentious behaviour,’ said John Beck.
‘And this is part of what’s puzzling me,’ said Salty. ‘I note that you yourself imbibe liquor with some evident enjoyment.’
‘In moderation.’
‘Yes, and who’s to blame you? Who’s to blame you, Father, for having a drink? John Wesley himself would agree, whaling is a thirsty business.’
As if to illustrate this, he swigged again from his rum bottle in a vehement fashion. Then he stashed it away in his coat pocket and pulled out his pipe, which he commenced to stoke.
‘Also the card games, Father,’ he continued, when he had completed the difficult process of lighting his pipe in the wind.
‘What’s that?’ said John Beck.
‘I’ve noticed you partake of the card games. Occasionally for stakes, I might add.’
‘Only when the fellows have needed an extra hand,’ said John Beck.
‘And very expertly, if I may say so,’ said Salty.
‘Well, that’s as may be –'
‘No, no, it begs to be remarked upon; you play with a great deal of proficiency.’
His eyes twinkled pleasantly at John Beck across the flickering flames.
‘Also,’ he added, ‘and here’s the rub, I could not help but ponder the nature of your attentions to Mary this evening.’
‘I was a minister once, but not anymore,’ said John Beck. ‘Have I not made that perfectly clear?’
‘Ah, yes, yes. Perfectly clear. But as I say, it’s the proficiency that puzzles me.’
John Beck slept poorly on the cold damp sand, and awoke at the first glimmering of the grey dawn breaking over the beach. The other whale men were still sleeping. They were a pitiful sight in the contortions of sleep, having each tried to find shelter by nestling tightly against one another, arms flung across faces, legs entangled. Robert, in the grip of a nightmare – possibly a nightmare about a large black whale – was moaning and muttering incoherently. With a sigh, John Beck unfolded his stiff limbs and clambered out of their dismal grotto. He looked out to sea. It was grey and roiling, its whitecaps blowing foam. He strained to see any sign of a floating whale carcass, but could not. He began to search for driftwood with which to build a fire, for he was keen to put the billy on.
Up ahead in the distance, he noticed a dark stooped figure standing on the shore. His heart started, for from this distance in the ghostly dawn light the figure looked almost like a large black crow, or an undertaker, or some other harbinger of ill fortune. As he drew closer, however, he realised it was Shankly. John Beck had not exchanged many words with Shankly up to now, and those words that had been exchanged had tended to leave John Beck feeling somewhat on the back foot.
> ‘Good morning!’ John Beck called out cheerfully, determined that Shankly not get the better of him this time. Shankly turned and surveyed him gloomily. He wore a long black coat that was flapping in the wind, and his thin hair was plastered over his scalp.
‘No sign of it,’ he remarked, with a sweeping gesture out to sea.
‘No,’ said John Beck. ‘It is not risen yet.’
‘Or else it has blown away while we lay sleeping,’ said Shankly. This appeared to be an attempt at levity, for he bared his long teeth in a kind of smile or grimace.
‘Yes,’ said John Beck, with a short laugh. Shankly’s grimace vanished.
‘A curious thing to find humorous, Father. Given that the livelihoods of twelve men depend upon it.’
‘Yes indeed,’ said John Beck, annoyed that Shankly had once again got the better of him. ‘Well, I am just off to gather firewood.’
‘Would it be an imposition if I were to trouble you with a theological question, Father?’
John Beck stopped, and turned back to him.
‘In the Methodist church, we are customarily addressed as Reverend,’ he responded, somewhat testily. ‘You may be thinking of the Catholic or the Anglican faiths, where the priest is referred to as Father.’
Shankly stared at him. ‘I understood you had left the church.’
‘That is so.’
‘But you wish to be still known as Reverend?’
‘No, I am simply – I am simply mentioning that it is customary for a minister of the Methodist church to be addressed as such.’
‘As you wish,’ said Shankly. ‘I daresay such questions of nomenclature are important to clergymen, even though they seem of trifling concern to the rest of us.’
John Beck sighed inwardly. He was beginning to wish he had never mentioned his clerical background in the first place, for the whalers could not seem to let go of it.
‘In your experience then, Reverend,’ Shankly continued, ‘how does the Lord regard the act of mudder?’
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