She heard her name again. Closer this time. ‘Bridie!’
She turned, smile fading, and found herself face-to-face with Annie. The older girl laughed, shaking her head.
‘I called your name ever so loudly. You looked so sad and lonely hovering about the main mast. I’m sitting over there with the single girls. Why don’t you join us?’
Bridie bit her lip, glancing from Annie to Rhys and back again. How could she refuse? Annie’s offer was so kind, genuine. She’d have to join the older girl, unless Rhys spoke up now.
‘I’d ask you to stay, Bridie Stewart. But I’m poor company.’
She nodded, pressing her lips together.
‘Remember, I told you before setting sail, this was going to be a long and difficult journey.’
So now she knew: Rhys didn’t want her friendship. Poor company, he called it. A long and difficult journey. Though, Siân didn’t agree. She gazed at Rhys with such tender concern that there was no room for anyone else. Certainly not a fifteen-year-old girl with a big silent notebook and a welter of aching doubts.
Eunice was queen of the single girls. As far as Bridie could tell, her sovereignty rested on a pair of fluttering blond eye lashes and the smug certainty that her bosom was three times bigger than anyone else’s. This made her an authority on all things unmarried and male. Though in truth, the single girls had little opportunity to mix with the single men. They cooked, ate meals, and did their chores separately. Even here on the main deck, they sat with the respectable buffer of thirty-six families between.
This didn’t stop speculation, the endless deliberations over which young man was the drollest, or most athletic, or who would make the best husband. Today, Eunice held court from the bottom step of the quarterdeck stairs. As Bridie and Annie slipped in behind the group, Mr Rolf was the young man in question.
‘He’s handsome,’ Eunice said, running her hands over her hips. ‘But he’s not my type. Besides, I’m going to marry a squatter.’
‘A squatter? Whatever d’you mean, Eunice?’
‘You know. One of those rich gentlemen’s sons with all the sheep. Besides, I think Mr Rolf fancies you, Hilary.’
Hilary, a long, thin girl with rabbity front teeth, pinked with pleasure. ‘Oh, no. I’m far too plain.’
Mr Rolf was a tall, solid young man with ears like paddles. He looked about as interesting as a tree trunk. Bridie had heard Alf sing his praises a number of times, which meant he must, indeed, be very dull, though this didn’t seem to have occurred to the blushing Hilary.
Bridie glanced sideways at Annie. The older girl always kept her head down, bonnet shading her face during these discussions, as if trying to avoid notice. But the curve of her lips told Bridie she might be willing to marry a tree trunk if the opportunity arose.
Another girl, Ruth, knelt up and peered along the deck. ‘Oh,’ she gasped, sitting down with a bump. ‘It’s him—Mr Todd. He waved at me.’
As one, the girls knelt, craning their necks.
‘Which one, Ruthie? Point him out to us.’
‘The tall one. With a red kerchief.’ Ruth fanned her cheeks. ‘Lord, he’s handsome.’
Bridie sighed. The single girls were all so silly. Even sensible Annie seemed to have had her brains addled. Was this what growing up was like? Why on earth would Ma and Alf want her to behave like this? Still, in other ways, it made perfect sense. Ma had been little more than Annie’s age when she’d first married Bridie’s dad. She claimed to have been young and foolish then, that the marriage was a mistake. Although, the way Bridie saw it, the foolishness had nothing to do with being young. Ma had married Alf within weeks of burying her first husband and was showing no signs of regret.
‘What about you Annie?’ Ruth’s laughing voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘Who do you fancy?’
Annie gave a start of surprise. ‘Oh. No one in particular.’
‘Go on! You’d be right desperate to marry, doting on Pam’s children the way you do.’
‘No. Not at all. I’d like to work as a nursemaid in the colony.’
‘But, you’ll want children?’
‘Yes, of course, one day. But—’
‘There’s only one way to have children,’ Hilary piped in from the side, ‘and I don’t mind admitting, I’m desperate.’
The girls shrieked, drumming their heels on the deck. It was so unkind, dragging Annie into the conversation when she’d been trying to stay out of it—and to call her desperate. As if she had no chance of marrying. Bridie reached out, grasping the older girl’s hand.
‘Now, girls,’ Eunice called above their laughter. ‘There’s no cause for concern. Port Phillip is crawling with young men. The emigration agent told me. There isn’t a single girl in the colony over the age of sixteen years. Sixteen, girls! Imagine that! Even Annie will find a husband there.’
Sixteen!
Bridie gasped, jerking her hand free of Annie’s. She swung round, searching the older girl’s face. Shame mottled her cheeks in high red patches and she had a trying-not-to-care press to her lips. But she didn’t seem surprised by Eunice’s summary of her prospects, or even alarmed.
But … Sixteen? Married!
If there wasn’t a single girl in the colony over the age of sixteen, that meant girls were courting at the age of fifteen—her age.
Realisation hit her in an icy wave.
All Alf’s hints, all Ma’s sly suggestions. Why hadn’t she realised? There would be men lining the docks when Lady Sophia dropped anchor in Port Phillip Bay. Hundreds of big, dull men, all desperate to claim her hand in marriage.
‘Fifteen!’ She’d shout out through cupped hands. ‘Only fifteen.’
Though by then, she’d be almost sixteen—the age for marrying and having babies. There would be no time for wishes then, Ma said, no time for stories—only a long dark future without music or magic or fairies.
Chapter 6
Annie cried all through supper and afterwards during mess duties. Bridie didn’t blame her. She felt like shrinking down to Lucy’s size and sucking her thumb after the afternoon’s revelations. Though, as it turned out, Annie’s tears had nothing to do with marriage, desperation, or Hilary’s rabbit-toothed comments.
‘You look right peaky,’ Pam said, rubbing her back. ‘Why don’t you have a lie down?’
Annie sniffed, dabbing at her eyes. ‘No, it’s all right. I’m fine.’
‘Still, I’m not surprised. You’ve taken on such a load at the dispensary. And my Billy’s a cheeky monkey. You’ll tell me if he gets too much, won’t you, love?’
‘No, please, Mrs Griggs. Don’t blame Billy. I’ve got … a tummy ache.’
Ah! A tummy ache. Bridie knew what that meant. Not first hand. She hadn’t started her monthlies. She thought, perhaps, it was just as well in the circumstances. Not even a big, dull man like Mr Rolf would want to marry a girl who couldn’t have babies.
‘Go on. I’ll finish the dishes.’ Pam eased the plate from Annie’s hand.
Annie wouldn’t stop crying. She scraped and stacked the plates while Pam protested, and Bridie did her best to help, and all the while tears ran in jagged lines around the pitted contours of her face.
Once the dishes were finished, Siân stepped in.
‘Now, then, Annie bach. I’ve a red petticoat here to draw out the pain and an infusion to help you sleep. But no more crying, mind. Rest, you’re needing.’
Annie sat docile as a child while Siân braided her hair, wrapped her in a red flannel petticoat, and tucked her into bed. Bridie climbed into the bunk beside her.
It wasn’t late in the evening. She could have stayed at the table. Pam had risen, leaving a space on the bench opposite Rhys and Siân. But what was the point? Rhys didn’t want her friendship. He’d made that plain this afternoon. He didn’t even want to be in steerage. His white-knuckled fists clenched the raised table edge, his gaze straying towards the hatchway. He’d have been up the ladder in a flash, if not for the steady rain-beat on the
deck boards overhead.
If she did take her place at the table, Ma would only arch her brows and say how nice it had been to see her sitting with the single girls that afternoon. Pam would glance up from her darning with a knowing smile. Before she knew it, Alf would join in, talking about her notebook and how she’d be an asset to man with a business.
Not that Alf posed a serious threat. Between exhaustion and Tom Griggs, he’d hardly had a chance to pester her about their voyage log. He sat, head in his hands, studying an old map spread out on the table in front of him, but every so often his eyelids drooped, as if the simple task of staying awake was beyond him. A fact that wasn’t wasted on Tom Griggs.
‘You can pretend to study that old map, Alf. But anyone can see you’re done in. You’ll drop dead from overwork if you don’t take control of the situation.’
‘The deck has to be cleaned. Doctor Roberts has strict instructions from the emigration commission.’
‘And you’re the muggins doing all the work—organising, motivating, inspecting, on top of your paid cleaning duties. You’ve gotta draw the line, get Mr Top-Hat-and-Tails involved.’
‘Doctor Roberts can’t scrub the deck.’
Bridie grinned. Alf really was very stupid.
‘No, Alf. You’re missing the point. And havin’ been a junior retail clerk for so long, it’s hardly surprising. But I was in the building trade, as I’ve told you a number of times, and I learned a thing or two about working men’s rights.’
‘Oh, good, we’ll start a cleaners’ union, shall we? Me, Harvey Rolf, and the other four men!’
‘You can mock. But Doctor Roberts hasn’t set foot in steerage since we left the Channel—and he won’t unless you put your foot down. Tell him he needs to draw up a schedule and conduct regular inspections. Otherwise, you can’t answer for our hygiene.’
‘I can’t tell Doctor Roberts what to do! He’s an important man.’
‘Important? Or are you too lily-livered?’
Oh, that was ripe! Bridie almost clapped her hands. Doctor Roberts wasn’t too important to promenade on the quarterdeck with Mrs Scarcebrook, making her blush and giggle like one of the single girls. As for Alf, he’d work himself into the ground, just like he had at the market, rather than stand up to Doctor Roberts. Bridie peered over the bed end. A mistake. Ma glanced up from her knitting, brow creased.
‘What are you sniggering at, Bridie? Take your head out of that ridiculous notebook, please, and come and sit with the adults for a while.’
‘I’m not reading my notebook.’
‘Then it must be Alf’s situation you find amusing?’
Alf shifted, laying a hand on Ma’s arm. ‘Leave it now, Mary, love. We don’t want an argument.’
No, Bridie didn’t want arguments, or even to be noticed. She smiled weakly at Alf. Her second mistake for the evening. He beamed back at her, clearly seeing a way out of his torment.
‘Your ma’s right, Bridie. You’d benefit from a change of focus. Bring your scrap paper down here, there’s a good lass. We’ll make some notes for our voyage log.’
‘What about the cleaning?’ Tom poked him in the ribs. ‘You still haven’t answered me question.’
‘I’m not a coward, Tom, if that’s what you’re implying. I’m simply conscious of my position. Something you may not understand for all your talk of working men’s rights.’
He turned back to Bridie. ‘Come on, lass, enough fairy tales. I saw you sitting with the single girls this afternoon. I doubt they had their minds on such nonsense.’
Nonsense! What about ogling Mr Rolf, all that cackling and drumming their feet on the deck.
‘No!’ The word exploded from Rhys’s mouth.
Silence, heads turning all along the deck.
He flushed, ducking his head. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. Only you’re wrong, Mr Bustle, that’s all.’
‘Wrong? Regarding my own stepdaughter?’
‘Fairy tales aren’t nonsense.’
‘Not in the strictest sense, young man. But they’re hardly helpful for a girl Bridie’s age.’
‘We all need stories, Mr Bustle. They help us understand our lives.’
Alf blinked, clearly stumped by the turn of events. Beside him, Tom Griggs threw back his head and cackled with glee.
‘Tell us a story then, Welshman. One that’ll help poor Alf here understand his life.’
‘Give over.’ Pam nudged his arm. ‘Alf’s had enough of your tormenting.’
‘No, Pam, I won’t give over.’ Tom’s yellow-toothed grin widened. ‘If this Welsh lad reckons he’s got a story that’ll help us understand our lives, I want to hear it.’
A story! Hope leapt like a hare in Bridie’s chest. Though Rhys looked rather like he was going to be sick. His face pale, his Adam’s apple huge in his throat. He swallowed, licking his lips.
‘Fairy tales don’t come made to measure, Tom.’
‘You’re the one making the claims, Welshman.’
Chapter 7
Lord, what had he done, speaking out? As if he had a right, as if he could help people understand their lives. Him, with his breath hard in his chest and his knees knocking beneath the table.
Rhys turned pleading eyes on Siân. Help get me out of this?
She shook her head. ‘Gelli di wneud e, Rhys.’
Do it? No! He couldn’t.
She leaned close, breath warm on his cheek. ‘Dig deep, find the words within, the words we acted out as children on the mountain. The stories you told that company of drovers on the way to London. They are inside you, Rhys. Only be still, let them come.’
Silence. All around him, his mess mates’ curious stares.
‘Not long,’ he heard Siân say. ‘Only searching for inspiration, he is.’
Inspiration? Here, in steerage? He emptied his mind, softened his shoulders, his neck. Tried to hear words above the wing-beat in his head. Wisdom, Rhonwen, Siân’s great aunt, had called the ancient tales. A torch. But could he find that wisdom here? Did he even have a right, when he hadn’t spoken to his own father in years?
‘You are not the wisdom, Rhys. The stories will speak for themselves.’
He nodded, held Siân’s gaze, thought of wind—fresh, bracing, like on the mountain—Rhonwen’s words filling him with wisdom and courage. Courage, yes, courage. He felt a familiar stirring—like sparks falling on tinder and producing a warm glow within.
Slowly, very slowly, as if pulling a cart laden with coal, he rose and shrugged out of his jacket. He stood, head bowed, trembling like an aspen leaf as Siân made her way to their bunk and returned with his fiddle. Her fingers were firm as she placed the warm wood in his hands, her presence a balm, soothing.
She began to hum.
Rhys closed his eyes, focused on the sound of her voice—soft, gentle, like a voice from another realm. The voice of his childhood. Never mind that his knees were quivering beneath his trousers. Or that his throat felt dry and resistant as old leather. The words were forming, still, small like a wisp of smoke at his core, yet there, unmistakably there, even in steerage.
He looked up into the hushed expectation of his mess mates’ faces.
‘Tom has asked for a story—one that will help us understand our lives. I cannot tell you Alf’s story. Or, indeed, Bridie’s. I can scarcely tell my own, for its meaning is not yet plain to me. But I can give you an ancient tale, of a prince with a hard, cruel father who raised a child other than his own. A good prince, an honest prince, Elffin ap Gwyddno.
‘Elffin yr Anffodus, the bards liked to call him; though I would seek to show you otherwise. He was a hapless young man, not overly burdened by intelligence, who lived out his days under the lordship of Maelgwn Gwynedd.’
He was sweating like an old washerwoman at her tub. But as Rhys raised his bow and let the violin speak, he felt a tenderness spread through him, felt the heaviness that had been on him since boarding the ship roll back like canvas.
Felt courage returning.
>
He glanced about to see if his mess mates were following.
‘Elffin ap Gwyddno! Elffin yr Anffodus!’ Tom spoke aloud to no one in particular. ‘Why don’t he stick to plain English?’
‘Wait!’ Pam whispered. ‘If you’re patient, he’ll explain the meaning.’
Rhys smiled. There was only one way to deal with a heckler: answer them—in your own time, not theirs—without skipping a beat. Arms folded, the lines of Tom’s face had fallen into a sceptical heap. But beyond him, Rhys saw heads lifting, fathers hoisting children onto their shoulders as, all along the deck, people jostled for a space on the bunks, benches and tabletops.
‘Stand on the bench,’ someone yelled out. ‘We can’t see back here.’
Rhys bowed, holding out a hand to Siân. She smiled, stepping up onto the bench, the small triumphant smile he knew so well. Rhys leaped up beside her and lent music to her song.
‘Misty May morning,
Elffin’s misfortune,
Take this tale as your own,
Wisdom and wonder,
Elffin’s misfortune,
Find yourself in this story.’
‘Now Elffin the Unfortunate was a plain, honest man,’ Rhys continued, ‘and therein lay his problem. For his father, Gwyddno Longshanks, had lost his prime lands through neglect and expected Elffin to make good his misfortune. To this end, Elffin was sent to the court of King Maelgwn Gwynedd. Alas, poor Elffin was neither a warrior nor a hunter. He was certainly not cut out to be a courtier. His prime quality was an honesty that did not allow him to speak with a double tongue. He served Maelgwn without distinction, married a woman without wealth or position, and settled happily on his father’s remaining estates.’
‘“Fool!” his father shouted. “Wasting every opportunity. How can we expect to prosper, if you will not exert yourself?”
The Tides Between Page 6