At breakfast the following morning, Tom Griggs moaned, and spewed his porridge onto the deck.
‘Where’s the bleedin’ surgeon?’ He gave a gurgling half-cry. ‘A man could die down here for all he cares.’
‘It’s the storm, Tom. Upsetting your stomach. Here, have some tea.’
‘Gawd! Not that muck.’
‘Not muck. Medicine. Siân’s remedy.’
‘I don’t care if the bleedin’ Virgin Mary herself prescribed it. I ain’t having any.’
‘Come on, set an example. Billy’s watching—and Lucy. Doctor Roberts said to keep your fluids up.’
Tom grabbed the bench and dragged himself upright, drool glistening his lips.
‘Fluids! I’ll tell you about fluids. I’ve just lost ’em. And you can tell your fancy Mr-Top-Hat-and-Tails surgeon that there’s sick people down here, really sick, your wife included. And if he wants to set an example, he can bloody well come down here and look after us properly.’
A sudden lurch made Alf fling out a hand. He grabbed the bedpost, keeping his head down lest Tom read the confusion in his face. Maybe the other man was right. Maybe he’d let things go too far. Mary was sick, really sick—and Bridie. Now even Tom Griggs was vomiting.
The overnight gales had been fierce. Choppy morning-after seas made it almost impossible to stand. Hands wide, legs apart, Alf watched Doctor Roberts insert a key into the salt encrusted lock. The cupboard doors creaked open, revealing the shelves in serious disarray. This morning, one of the large stoppered bottles had broken. Doctor Roberts picked up a shard of glass and dropped it into the bucket he was using as a bin, his movements abrupt, testy, his eyebrows almost touching over the bridge of his nose.
Alf swallowed, his mouth filling with cobwebs. Maybe this wasn’t a good time to ask about Mary. He should wait, perhaps, until afternoon surgery. No, that was a feeble excuse—Sorry Mary, I couldn’t talk to the surgeon, his brows were too low. Besides, what did he have to fear? Doctor Roberts clearly thought well of him. ‘Good man,’ he’d said, followed by ‘a cut above the others’. He wouldn’t have said those things unless he meant them, or asked Alf to be his ‘eyes and ears in steerage’.
Alf coughed, clearing his throat. ‘Good morning, Doctor Roberts.’
‘Ah, Bustle. How are my patients this morning?’
‘Much the same, I’m afraid.’
‘You’ve kept their fluids up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then there really is nothing more we can do.’
‘Ordinarily, I would agree with you, sir. You’ve so been generous with your instructions. But … it’s my wife Mary I’m worried about.’
‘No doubt you are worried. But we mustn’t let emotion cloud our judgment.’
‘No, of course not.’ Alf reached out, steadying himself against the solid wall of the deckhouse. ‘But she’s expecting, you see, and hasn’t been at all well, what with the strain of the move, and now these storms. She can’t keep a thing down. I wondered, well, I’d hoped, if it wasn’t too much trouble—’
‘Yes, yes. I appreciate your concern.’ Doctor Roberts interrupted with a flick of his hand. ‘But a sea voyage is hard on women who are breeding. You knew that before setting sail, I presume?’
‘Yes, no, I mean, definitely, sir. Siân, the little Welsh girl is also badly affected. I see that, now you’ve pointed it out. But she’s not the only one.’ Alf thought of Tom, Bridie, the two hundred or so others lying wretched in their bunks. ‘Some … well, even some of the stronger ones are beginning to feel discouraged.’
‘Nonsense. You must be firm. Surely, you’ve explained the temporary nature of the situation?’
‘Yes, I have, but I think they might need—’
‘What they need is a change.’ Doctor Roberts turned, eyes narrowed, pointing. ‘Like that stubborn Welsh lad over there. He’s a strange, haughty sort of fellow. A troublemaker, Bustle. Mark my words. You’ll do well to keep an eye on him. He didn’t take kindly to being dismissed. Made the most astonishing accusations. And now here he is, huddled on the main deck. It’s a bit odd, don’t you think?’
Alf didn’t know what to say. He’d had little chance of getting to know Rhys before setting sail. He seemed a polite young man, though rather pale and withdrawn, when he thought about it, and there was, of course, the strange business with Bridie at the watergate. But if asked to describe the Welsh lad, Alf didn’t think the think the words ‘odd’ or ‘troublemaker’ would have topped the list.
‘He seems to like the fresh air.’
‘Precisely!’ Doctor Roberts all but pounced. ‘Tell your wife and any others who are complaining that they will feel a marked improvement out on the main deck.’
Alf glanced at Rhys, his face pale and green against the hard dark wood of the bulwarks. He didn’t look any better for being outdoors. ‘I think, well, if you don’t mind me speaking freely … I think they might like to hear it from you.’
Doctor Roberts sniffed, his nostrils pinching.
‘You disappoint me, Bustle. Really. I thought you’d jump at the chance of extra responsibility. Your references certainly indicated a capacity for hard work. But if you’re going to complain at the first sign of trouble. Or let family matters interfere.’
‘No! I won’t, truly. I’m honoured by the trust you’ve placed in me. Only, I thought, perhaps, you mightn’t realise … how sick people were.’
‘Your concern is noteworthy, although somewhat misguided. I will therefore put the slight down to ignorance.’ Doctor Roberts’ lips thinned. ‘As surgeon superintendent on a voyage such as this, I must juggle a number of responsibilities. Many of which, from your limited viewpoint, you can scarcely appreciate.’
‘Yes. Thank you, sir. I’ll bear it in mind.’
‘Very well. Now that’s established, let’s move onto the unfortunate matter of your wife.’
Alf eyed him warily. What was this? A sudden change of heart? He didn’t think so. Doctor Roberts’ lips were pulled downwards, as if the whole situation had given him a sour taste.
‘The seasickness will pass, Bustle, as I’ve told you already. It’s merely a matter of time. But talk is costly. No matter how careless. It can undermine the morale of an entire voyage. Since, in this instance, you’ve let it get out of hand, I must now make a practical demonstration of my care. Tomorrow, you will therefore gather all but the most seriously affected on deck.’ Doctor Roberts paused, consulting his watch. ‘Say at two bells, on the forenoon watch?’
‘But—’
‘I want you to set up screens and tubs for bathing, Bustle. People will feel better for a bathe. Once they’re clean and comfortable, you may sanitise steerage, while I talk to those most in need of reassurance. Then, once the deck has been fumigated, I will visit those confined to their bunks.’ He stood, a hand on each lapel, his buttons winking in the bleak, mid-morning light. ‘Well, Bustle, what do you say?’
‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir,’ Alf muttered the anticipated response, all the while wondering how he was going to motivate a sickly, demoralised group of travellers to take a sponge bath in the chill wind.
The outward bang of an intermediate cabin door jolted Alf from his thoughts. He glanced up to see Mrs Scarcebrook, the ship’s matron, staggering onto the deck. She looked dreadful, almost skeletal. Though she’d set her bonnet at a fetching angle, there was no disguising the scooped out hollows of her cheeks.
Doctor Roberts pushed past him with an outstretched hand. ‘Mrs Scarcebrook! This will never do.’
‘I’m quite well, Doctor Roberts. Only a little unsteady on my feet.’
‘Not well enough, dear lady. Not nearly well enough. Even your friends at the commission would not expect you to work in this state.’
So, it was true. She did have friends in high places. How else could this sweet, honey-haired young woman have been employed as matron on a crowded emigrant vessel? Her husband had gone ahead of her to Port Phillip, if the rumours were to be believed, and fo
und himself unable to meet her travel expenses. Though how she was going to oversee the welfare of the forty-eight single girls was anyone’s guess. Doctor Roberts was clearly of the same opinion.
‘You are gravely ill, Mrs Scarcebrook. I’ll not have you out of bed until you are recovered.’
‘You’re too kind. But I daren’t abuse my position.’
‘Nor shall you.’ Doctor Roberts patted her gloved hand. ‘A person in my position has many cares—surgery sessions twice daily, a ream of paperwork to present at the end of the voyage, a host of other sundry emergencies. If you will share my burdens, of an evening, perhaps over sherry and biscuits? Lend your pretty hand to my paperwork? You’ll be doing me an immense service.’
‘Oh.’ She flushed, dropping her gaze. ‘You do ease my mind. For I must confess, I have no great experience of nursing.’
‘And neither shall you, my dear. It’s preposterous. One of the emigrant women can take your place. What do you say, Bustle? A married woman, perhaps? As befitting a matron’s status.’
Alf shook his head. ‘There are none enough, sir. Apart from the lass travelling with my family.’
‘The disfigured one?’ Doctor Roberts grimaced.
‘Annie, sir.’
‘Oh, well, she’ll have to do.’
Chapter 5
Bridie’s days passed in a blur of seasickness and storm. She wouldn’t look at Alf when he brought the tea around, or talk to him. This was his fault, all of it—the leaving home, the seasickness, and now this horrible salt-water bath on the main deck.
‘Come on,’ he said, pulling back her covers. ‘There’s a good girl. Leave your notebook. You’ll feel better for a bathe.’
‘No!’ Bridie grabbed the blanket and dragged it back over her head.
‘Please, lass, everyone else is getting up.’
Bridie wouldn’t budge, not when Alf wheedled. Or when he brought his big round face in line with hers. She heard Tom Griggs’ muttered curses, Pam’s tearful attempts to explain to the children, an all-around moan of people easing themselves upright. Still, she wouldn’t leave her bunk. Even when Alf tugged at the covers again.
‘Look Billy’s up. And Lucy. You’re the only one making a fuss.’
‘What about Ma? She doesn’t have to bathe!’
‘Your ma’s expecting. We can’t put her health at risk. But look, here’s Siân. She’s never seen anyone behaving so badly.’
Alf shifted on the bench. Bridie felt a cool hand touch her cheek.
‘Not badly, Mr Bustle. Only cross, she is, see, and poorly. Maybe a little frightened? Sickness takes us all differently.’
Bridie jerked upright. ‘I’m not frightened!’
‘There you are, only needing a bit of encouragement, she is, see. Leave us now, Mr Bustle. She’ll be fine with me.’
Siân’s face looked pale and drawn. But her eyes were soft with understanding. Her hand closed around Bridie’s. ‘Come, cariad, it’s a bath we’re having. Whether we like it or not. Bring your notebook. There’s a good girl. It’ll make you strong.’
Bridie wept as she dragged herself up the hatchway ladder and as she stripped down to her small clothes. Huddled against the bulwarks, she cradled her notebook to her chest and tried to feel her dad’s presence. He wasn’t there—not in the lurching grey menace of the sea, or in the scudding clouds overhead. Even the still, small voice of her imagination had fallen silent and, all the while, Ma’s words coiled like a snake in her head.
He’d given up, Bridie. Why can’t you see it? He wanted to die.
The hard yellow soap didn’t foam like at home. The flannel scoured her goose-bumped flesh. She shivered, teeth chattering as she fumbled back into her bodice and skirts, the sensation like a thousand pricking pins.
Steerage smelled better on her return, she had to admit. Little by little, warmth stole back into her tingling limbs. She still couldn’t rise, or join her messmates at the table. She could barely manage the short, lurching trip to the privy. The deck boards were so slippery, and the whole vessel tilted on an angle, as if the passengers were little silver balls and Neptune had decided to play a game with them.
‘It’s all to do with the wind and how they set the sails.’ Alf explained with a horrible, toothy I-want-to-be-your-father smile. ‘We’ll write about it, once you’ve found your sea legs.’
Bridie had no intention of writing about the sails—with or without her missing legs. But she felt too weak to argue with Alf. Besides, the information was useless. Whether their ship was tilted by wind, Neptune, or God himself, it made no difference. Her legs still sprawled all over the place.
Things improved once the storms had passed. Bridie’s world stopped swinging like a gong. She managed to rise, dress, and walk the entire length of steerage. Her days fell into the steady rhythm of bells, mealtimes and rostered duties. Except now she faced long afternoons in the sun. Long, lonely afternoons in which mothers nursed babies under awnings, men smoked pipes and discussed their prospects while little girls played endless games of pat-a-cake, and their brothers squirmed like maggots underfoot. Endless, empty afternoons, in which Bridie watched the sailors pick at oakum, gazed up at the men in the rigging, or stood with her back to the galley and listened to the black cook sing, until her legs ached and she longed to sit down. But where? And who with?
On the whole crowded vessel, she didn’t have anyone to sit with, or talk to. She was the odd one out.
Ordinarily, this wouldn’t have mattered so much. Even at the charity school on Hart Street, she’d been the oldest girl by a couple of years. But then she’d had her notebook for company. Now she couldn’t read past the message on the flyleaf without hearing the echo of Ma’s cruel words.
When night is dark and the wind blows hard and shadows overwhelm you—there are always stories. There was nothing sinister about the first part. Her dad had been sick and sad. He always took comfort in stories. But the next bit, write them down and think of me and how I have ever loved you, gave her an echoing, empty well-shaft feeling in the pit of her tummy.
She had to admit, it sounded an awful lot like goodbye.
Why? Why would he write such a thing unless he was leaving? And if he knew he was leaving, he must have known he was going to die. Which meant he couldn’t have loved her, at least, not enough to stay alive …
No! Ma was wrong. People had accidents all the time. It didn’t prove a thing. Not that they had given up. Or that they wanted to die. One day, she’d have answers to Ma’s accusations. Meanwhile, she needed company. She’d go mad listening to the voices in her head.
At the base of the main mast, she picked out Rhys and Siân. All through the miserable days of seasickness and storm, she’d been aware of the Welsh couple suffering in the bunk below. She’d seen Rhys’s face drain of colour each time the hatch covers were rammed into place, Siân cradling his head in her hands. She remembered the coolness of those hands on her own cheek, the Welsh girl coaxing her out of bed. She’d hoped, once the storms passed, they would go on being friends. But these days, Siân only had eyes for Rhys. Even from a distance, Bridie could sense her concern. She kept glancing sideways, her eyes alert to Rhys’s every movement, as if he were sugar and might dissolve any minute. As Bridie watched, she leaned close and pointed out a gull flying above the salt spray. Rhys smiled. His face momentarily lost its haunted expression.
Bridie’s heart twisted. If only she were that gull. If only Rhys would look up and notice her standing alone. She didn’t want to pester the Welsh couple, or sit down uninvited. But if she were to stroll past them on this sunny afternoon while Rhys was still smiling, maybe, just maybe, Siân would glance up and beckon her over.
Stepping away from the deckhouse, Bridie picked her way through a group of freckle-faced Scotswomen clustered about the cargo hatch. She followed the smooth, curved line of the bulwarks aft, stopping just short of the quarterdeck stairs. A plume of salt spray misted her cheeks. From amidst a group of single girls, Annie’s hand ro
se, beckoning.
Bridie swivelled away, heat creeping her cheeks. She didn’t want to sit with Annie. Though, the older girl always made a point of inviting her over. Bridie didn’t feel right sitting among the single girls with piled up hair and laced-tight waists. Besides, they were boring. As far as she could tell, they only ever talked about one thing—the single men.
‘Bridie!’ She heard her name called.
Without looking back, she began to weave her way through the bonnets, boots and sensible skirts of the single girls.
At the back hatch, she stopped to catch her breath amid a welter of soft-spoken Gaelic. Rhys and Siân sat forward of the main mast, looking out over a pile of rolled-up canvas. Would they look up? Invite her over?
She walked forward in a slow straight line, drew level with the mast. Rhys was close, so close, she could have reached out and touched him. She stopped, shuffled her feet, examined the smooth round head of a belaying pin. Coughed, shuffled some more, ran her hands along the taut lines of rigging, heard the high, thin snatch of her name again: ‘Bridie!’
She glanced down, tutting, and shuffled over to the pile of canvas, placed her notebook on the roll directly in front of Rhys. She raised her boot, tied one careful bow, and doubled it. Checked her other lace. Grabbing her notebook, she peeped sideways at Siân.
The Welsh girl caught her eye, smiling, and nudged Rhys. ‘Look, cariad, here’s Bridie, come to say hello.’
‘Bridie!’ Rhys gave a start of recognition. ‘Bridie Stewart?’
‘Yes.’
‘And her fairy notebook?’
Bridie flushed, turning the notebook over in her hands. It sounded foolish without a gathering dusk and the haunting strains of ‘Ar Hyd y Nos’.
‘Your ma relented in the end, I see, Bridie Stewart.’
‘Yes. I mean, no. Well, anyway, Alf let me keep the notebook.’
He smiled, a tired smile, that didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Happy, I am, to see it safe.’
Bridie swallowed, looking down at her feet. The notebook was there, in her hands, but it was far from safe. Ma’s words had twisted her dad’s message all out of shape. She couldn’t hear his voice anymore when she turned its pages, or feel his presence. But how to explain? And would he be interested?
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