Ma teetered on the bench, her eyes a steely gleam. She wasn’t losing interest, or not looking. She wasn’t going to miss anything.
Bridie’s vision blurred.
She yanked the canvas bag from its peg, crawled along the bed and jumped down, hitting the deck with a thud.
‘It’s all right, Ma. You sit down. I’ll unpack.’
‘No. Let’s get to the bottom of this.’
Out came Bridie’s wad of scrap paper, her towel and cake of yellow soap. Next came her clean white shift, two pairs of worsted stockings, a pinafore and her starched cotton cap. Ma’s hands delved to the bottom of the bag. Her fingers closed around the single remaining item—a flannel petticoat, with something hard and flat at its core.
Bridie’s heart hammered. Her fingers clenched. She didn’t move or cry out as Ma unrolled the petticoat and let it tumble to the ground. The notebook sat like a breadboard on her palm.
‘I told you to leave this behind!’
‘I couldn’t, Ma. It’s precious.’
Ma’s lips thinned. ‘I’ve been patient, Bridie. God knows how patient. I let you spend hours in that blessed cellar, when you should have been helping me with my piecework. Given you time and extra candles, though we could ill afford them. But it’s been eighteen months since his death and you still haven’t adjusted. Or made an effort with the new father in your life.’
‘I don’t want to adjust. Or forget my dad.’
‘You haven’t got a choice, girlie. We’re leaving.’
‘No. I haven’t got a choice. About Alf, or emigrating. But I’m not going to leave my notebook behind, just because you hated my dad.’
‘Me? Hated him! Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘It’s true, Ma. You know it is.’
‘Truth! You want the truth? He didn’t love us. That’s the only truth I see. If he had, he wouldn’t have gone out that night.’
‘He only went because you nagged him.’
‘What of the other nights? Days spent staring at the wall? All our hard earned money spent on whisky? Is that what love looks like? He picked a funny way of showing it.’
‘It was your fault! You told him to stay away that night. I heard you. “Don’t come back,” you said. “We’re better off without you.”’
‘If not that night, it would have been another. Why can’t you see it? He’d given up, Bridie. He wanted to die.’
‘No! My dad loved me. He’d never leave me on purpose.’
‘He would—and he did. These words prove it.’ Ma wrenched open the notebook, jabbing at the message on the flyleaf. ‘“She held him fast, tho’ the wild elves laughed and the mountains rang with mire. She held him fast though he turned at last to a gleed of white hot fire.”’ Her lips curled. ‘A reference to “Tamlane”, isn’t it? His favourite ballad? As if he were some blighted Scottish hero, instead of a man who didn’t know his duty.’
‘He was sick, Ma, and sad. It doesn’t mean a thing.’
‘“Dark nights, cruel winds, shadows overwhelming,”’ Ma continued as if Bridie hadn’t spoken. ‘Then, here’s the choicest part, “Write them down and think of me and how I have ever loved you.”’ She looked up, triumph lighting her eyes. ‘That’s not a Christmas message. That’s a goodbye.’
‘No!’ Bridie backed away, clapping her hands to her ears. Why did Ma always do this? Why must she always spoil things? Her dad loved her. He never meant to fall down drunk in the street. When they brought him home, blue with cold, he’d fought to stay alive with every breath of his being.
Bridie crawled into her bunk. She shivered, curled up small, teeth chattering—cold, so cold, despite the thick wool blanket. Shock. It must be shock. She’d heard Ma talk about shock before. She’d heard her say nasty things about her dad too. In the early days, when he first got sick, Bridie had witnessed their arguments first hand. She remembered Ma’s shrill voice and twisting fingers. Her furious attempts to snap him out of his despair. But in all that time, amid all the terrible things that had been said, she’d never accused him of wanting to die before.
It wasn’t true! Despite Ma’s cruel words. Even in the final days of his illness, when coughs wracked his body and blood smeared his handkerchiefs, he’d dreamed of returning to Drury Lane. But what if all that time he’d been lying? If he’d written her Christmas message, knowing one cold night in the middle of winter would be enough to kill him? If he’d handed it over with love in his eyes, all the while planning to leave her … forever?
No! She’d never believe it. Yet, now the words had been said, she didn’t know what to do with them, how to make sense of them. Only lie in her bunk, letting them curl around her like tendrils of smoke and cast their pall over everything.
Alf didn’t notice. He came bustling along the deck, full of his own importance as always, seeing neither Bridie curled up in her bunk or Ma’s stiff, upright form.
‘Mary, sorry to keep you waiting. It’s a long story. You’ll never guess. Doctor Roberts has asked me to be his chief cleaning constable. He’s a bit of a dandy to look at, love. But a professional man nonetheless. He took me aside, said he’d read my character references, thought I was a cut above the others. He wants me to be his eyes and ears in steerage. Imagine that! If only Mr Pitt had heard those words. He’d not have overlooked me then, would he, love? Or promoted Johnnie Blackett ahead of me. Mary?’
Bridie heard a pause. Alf’s big dull mind trying to comprehend.
‘Mary, love, what’s wrong?’
‘Oh, Alf, I’ve lost the baby’s bonnet. And … Bridie’s been sneaky.’
‘Bridie? Sneaky! Don’t tell me she’s hidden the bonnet?’
‘No, it’s worse. Much worse.’
‘What, love? Tell me.’
‘She’s brought her notebook on board, Alf. The one I told her to leave behind.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, it’s disappointing, I have to admit. You’ve been so patient with her. I’d hoped she would make a clean break of things once we left Covent Garden.’
‘She accused me of hating him, Alf. Said I caused the argument.’
‘There now. We know it wasn’t that simple.’
Bridie didn’t stir. As if from afar, she heard Alf’s ambition, Ma’s obvious distress. Her mind registered the overhead trample of feet, the close up flap of steam paddles, heavy lines dragging against the side of the ship. Somehow, somewhere, she knew this was linked to a magic penny. But she no longer cared. Curled around the ache at her core, she heard only a measured pulse and the low distant murmur of another world.
‘I’ll have a word with her. We can’t have you upset. I’m going to be busier than ever in this new position. Where is Bridie anyway?’
‘In her bunk, Alf, sulking. I’ve said too much. But you know how she gets my blood up. Still, at least she knows the truth now. I’ve set her straight on that score. There’ll be no more mooching about, thinking her dad was God’s own gift to the world.’
The deck boards creaked. Bridie glimpsed Alf’s slowly turning form. She scrunched her eyes tight. Heard a sigh.
‘Look at me, please, Bridie.’
‘Go away.’
‘I know you’re upset. But we can’t have arguments. Your Ma’s condition is delicate.’
‘She started it.’
‘Can you climb down, please, Bridie? It’s hard talking to a heap of bedclothes.’
Bridie sat up, shoved aside the rumpled blankets and slithered down from her bunk. Alf stood in the aisle, her notebook clasped like a Bible in his hands. Beside him, Ma bristled like a brush, her eyes red-rimmed.
‘Your stepfather’s here now, Bridie. He’ll decide what’s to be done.’
‘No.’ Bridie grabbed for the notebook. ‘It’s mine. Give it back.’
‘Of course it’s yours.’ Alf laid a gentling hand on her arm. ‘No one’s disputing its ownership, and I’d like to give it back to you. But first we need to sort out this little … misunderstanding. You know why, don’t you, lass? You’re not a
child anymore. You’re old enough to be honest—and to trust me.’
The unexpected kindness brought a wash of tears. It wasn’t real kindness, of course, only a pretence to get her on side. As if that were possible, when even now he fanned her notebook with his big, blunt fingers, as if he owned it, as if he had a right, seeing each carefully penned story without the music and magic of the cellar—and all through the lens of Ma’s bitter memories.
‘No, Alf! Don’t read it!’
Alf stepped back, surprise widening his eyes. ‘Don’t take on, lass. I’m only trying to help.’
‘You don’t understand. It’s private.’
‘I do understand. More than you realise. But your Ma’s upset. We need to put her mind at rest.’
Bridie’s fingers curled. She wanted to lash out, yank the notebook from Alf’s grasp, sprint along the deck. But what then? Find Rhys? No, he had his own troubles. ‘You say you understand, but you wouldn’t let me bring the notebook. You say you want to sort things out, yet you always take Ma’s side on everything.’
‘It’s not a matter of taking sides.’
‘Really? You never back me up, or see things my way. That’s why Rhys had to …’ She stopped, shuffled. Her eyes found the deck.
‘Rhys! The Welsh lad? What’s he got to do with this?’
‘He … well, he may have helped me … at the watergate.’
‘Helped?’ Alf turned puzzled eyes on Ma. Unfortunately, she wasn’t so slow to grasp the situation.
‘Hah! Him, a married man, his wife about to have a baby. He ought to be reported for interfering. Still, I’m not surprised. Welsh—and a musician. He was bound to be shifty.’
‘No, Ma. He wasn’t shifty. He was kind. And he understood about my dad and my notebook … even about the fairies.’
‘Stories! Fairies! Magic pennies! You think I didn’t realise? “Don’t you want to say goodbye to London? The things we’ll miss?” In a few years you’ll be married, with a husband and children to feed. There’ll be no time for wishes then, my girl. Or magic pennies.’
‘My dad made wishes. Even after he was married.’
‘Exactly! A mistake from the beginning. With me too young and foolish to see the signs. A little less wishing and a bit more elbow grease might have put some food on the table.’
‘Oh good, so I’ll marry someone boring.’
‘Not boring. Sound.’
‘And stupid!’
‘Enough.’ Alf stepped between them. ‘Let’s not say things we don’t mean.’
Bridie meant every word, and more besides. She blinked, looking up at Alf through a prickly haze.
He held up a silencing hand. ‘No, Bridie. I want you to hear me out.’ He swivelled back round. ‘You too, Mary, before you start. This is a family matter. I’ll not be reporting it to anyone.’
‘You’re the chief constable. You could have Rhys struck off the list.’
‘It’s too late, I’m afraid. He didn’t turn up for the cleaners’ meeting. Doctor Roberts is a strict man, Mary, and I hope a fair one too. I’ll go a long way with his backing in the colony. But he doesn’t strike me as a man for second chances. Perhaps it’s just as well, under the circumstances.’ He shrugged, thick lips pursed, and studied the notebook. ‘This seems harmless enough. As far as I can tell, it’s only fairy tales. That’s right, isn’t it, Bridie? Scottish fairy tales?’
She nodded, throat tight. ‘My dad’s favourites.’
‘It’s a lovely sentiment, lass, and I can see you’ve put a great deal of effort into preserving his memory. But your ma’s right. You’re too old for fairy tales. They didn’t help your dad and they won’t help you either.’
‘Please. I can’t leave it behind.’
‘You’re a clever girl.’ Alf continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Your ma kept you at school long enough to learn your sums. You could marry well in Port Phillip. You’d be an asset to a man with a business. There’s no rush, of course. You’ve only just turned fifteen. But girls do marry young in the colonies, I’ve told you that already and, as your father, I intend to see you make the most of your opportunities. Is that clear, Bridie? Do you hear me?’
She couldn’t answer. Tears fell thick and fast.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ Alf droned on. ‘But there are blank pages in this notebook.’
There were. She’d written small, drafted each story multiple times before entering it in her best copybook hand. Hoping, always hoping, there would be something more—a story she’d forgotten, perhaps, a treasured phrase, or ballad.
‘I’m not an ogre, Bridie, despite your best efforts to paint me as one, and as we’re setting out on a one-way journey, I’d like to make a fresh start. What do you say, lass? Are you ready to compromise?’
Understanding came slowly, letter by letter, then the whole word: compromise—agreement, understanding, settlement. She looked up, searching Alf’s round, earnest face. ‘You mean … you’re going to give it back to me?’
‘On one condition, that you work with me from now on—learn the names of the ship’s sails, record daily temperatures, note geographical details of the lands we pass en-route. There will be so many interesting things to record, Bridie. Sensible, adult things to improve your mind. What do you say, lass? Shall we make a daily log of the voyage?’
Say? What could she say? Alf’s words dropped like pebbles into her stunned silence. It was horrible. She shuddered. Too horrible to think about. Yet, so typical of Alf—this terrible misguided kindness.
‘Well?’ Ma’s sharp voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘What do you say? Your stepfather has made a generous offer.’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Head down, Bridie muttered the expected response.
Alf smiled, holding the notebook out to her. ‘Right, it’s agreed. A fresh start.’
At last! It was hers. Bridie snatched the notebook and spun round, hard and fast. Saw the nearby hatchway. Alf blocking her path. Head down, she shoved past him. Heard Ma’s cry of alarm. Didn’t look back. She flew up the hatchway ladder and stumbled blinking into the sunlight. Even then, she didn’t stop. She shoved forward into the press of people, not caring whose toes she might tread on. Or who she might hurt. In the shadow of the quarterdeck stairs, she sank down, tears coursing her cheeks.
Too late for wishes, or magic pennies. Too late to find Rhys and Siân. But at least she held the notebook in her hand. Discovered, sullied, its final message horribly diminished—but hers, still remarkably hers. She would never share it with Alf. He wasn’t her dad. She’d rather throw her notebook into the sea than let it fall into his big, blunt, interfering hands.
Chapter 3
Hidden. Thank God he was hidden. Rhys leaned back against the horsebox, pressed his feet down onto the deck and tried to stop his knees from shaking. It didn’t work. He drew a ragged breath, pressed harder, his fingers clutching the coarse fur of the black bitch curled up beside him. Hours, he’d been squeezed into this rectangle of space between ship’s boats and horsebox. Ever since his panicked early morning flight from steerage. Hours, with his fists clenched and his feet jammed against the deck-boards, waiting for the clamp on his airways to ease.
He’d heard his messmates line up for breakfast rations, the click of the capstan on the fo’c’s’le, a drag of anchor lines against the side of the ship, feeling a jerk as the tugs took up the slack in the tow ropes, their vessel turning slowly towards the sea. He’d heard his name called too. Doctor Roberts. The ship’s surgeon. The voice sounded oddly familiar. All around him, the whoops and cheers of his fellow travellers told him they were leaving. That he should be in a meeting, providing for his family. Or throwing a penny over the bows of the ship as Siân had planned.
For luck! Dear God, he needed more than luck this morning.
Still, he’d managed to pull his boots on. He couldn’t have done that an hour ago. Maybe the worst of the panic was passing. Though he still couldn’t crawl out from his hiding place. Or face his messmates. Th
e thought of returning to steerage made him tremble like an old man with palsy.
He’d have to face it, eventually. Tonight, the next night, four whole months of nights—maybe as long as five? How many was that? A hundred and fifty nights. Dear God, how would he ever endure it? More to the point, how could he still be so pathetic? He wasn’t down a mineshaft, or locked in a cupboard. Tad wasn’t standing over him, belt in hand.
Crist, the memories, always the memories.
He breathed deep, fixed his eyes on the chink of blue sky above, and tried to stop his teeth from chattering. They had chattered the night he left Cwmafan. His knees had knocked beneath the table too. No! He mustn’t think about Cwmafan. Nefi, how could he not think of it? The terror, the beatings, the flight. This morning, it was like the years between had never happened. All that schooling his face and pretending, gone. Vanished. As if Tad still had the power to force him underground.
He saw their grey stone cottage in the hills above Cwmafan, a child of six being dragged towards the pit head, himself running—always running, the sneering faces of his brothers, Mam taking his place down the mine. Rhys moaned, pressing his hands to his face, saw a seed cake with the number twelve pressed into its crust, his new work clothes hung in readiness behind the door, Tad’s Bible open, accusing, his fist slamming down on the rough wooden table top.
‘We’ll have no more running, son. No more hiding behind your mam’s apron strings. You’re a man now, time you did a man’s work. And, God help me, I’ll cure you of this cowardice, even if I have to chain you to the coal face.’
Rhys had run—at midnight, on his twelfth birthday, taking his grandfather’s fiddle and a hunk of barley bread from the pantry. He’d joined a party of drovers, travelled all the way to London, where Tad’s vengeance could never reach him. Left Siân, the friend of his childhood, who had known of his fear and not despised him, who had shared his love of music and stories, who had needed to escape as much as he did, left her with only a tiny wooden love spoon and a promise he would one day return.
The Tides Between Page 3