When the night is dark and the wind blows hard and shadows overwhelm you—there are always stories. Write them down and think of me and how I have ever loved you.
Why? Why was she doing this? She’d read her dad’s message a thousand times. Nothing had changed. The words didn’t prove a thing, not goodbye, or I want to die. They were nothing, without Ma’s accusations. Nothing, unless, she took her dad’s behaviour into account.
Behaviour, strange otherworldly moods? Could she call them that? Though her dad was neither woman nor fairy. Is that what Rhys had meant by seeing with different eyes? If so, she didn’t much like the experience. For if she took her dad’s behaviour into account, his hacking won’t-go-away cough, the times he’d wept without reason, the days he’d lain with his face to the wall, the nights he’d gone out drinking. Then maybe Ma was right. She would never believe he’d meant to kill himself that icy December night. But maybe, just maybe, he had given up on life.
Chapter 10
Next afternoon wasn’t so difficult. Once Rhys and Siân had practised the fairy woman’s story, they told the tale of a changeling boy and how, by brewing beer in an egg cup and finding a hen without a single white tail feather, his mother managed to win him back from the fairies. The next day, they told a silly story about a man called Cadwaladr and his goat. Except, they didn’t simply tell the story. They acted it out, with laughter and bleating voices, trading memories of their childhood back on the mountains.
It was the same the next afternoon, and the ones following—as if the stories worked a kind of magic. For no matter how distant Rhys was of a morning, nor how tight and white his face at the beginning of a story, once he entered the realm of the make believe, the real, storytelling Rhys returned.
Bridie had no more time for loneliness, no further need to sit with Annie and the single girls. She spent her mornings drafting and redrafting. Her afternoons participating a mystery. ‘A long and noble tradition,’ as Rhys explained it, ‘a bardic stream dating back to antiquity.’ She could never quite capture the essence. No matter how often she redrafted. But as she wrote, she fancied herself part of a chain, without beginning or end, linked only by the silver- strong words of its tellers
It wasn’t all stories and make believe. They had left the Canary Isles far behind, and brisk, northeast trade winds were pushing them down towards the equator. Bridie spent miserable steerage-bound afternoons with fat drops of rain spattering the deck. Restless, sweat-drenched nights with heat prickling her every crevice. Stomach churning mornings like this one, when she huddled beneath the bulwarks, the wind snatching at her paper and the sea’s swell threatening to bring back the nightmare of seasickness.
She also had to keep an eye out for Ma.
Bridie had made no secret of her afternoons with the Bevans. By shoving scraps of paper across the supper table, she’d managed to convince Alf they were working on her voyage log. So far he’d been too busy and preoccupied to protest. Ma wasn’t nearly so stupid. She didn’t often venture onto the main deck, preferring the closeness of steerage. But lately, she’d made a habit of climbing the hatchway ladder and, once on the main deck, had developed an uncanny knack of sneaking up on Bridie unawares.
Bridie shivered, glancing back over her shoulder. She heard the familiar chime of six bells. Eleven o’clock, as if on cue, Lucy’s tousled head popped out from the hatchway. Pam followed with an empty quart pot. Elevenses! How could they contemplate tea with the sea bubbling like a cauldron beneath?
Adjusting her scrap paper, Bridie weighed it down with her notebook. Last night, Rhys had told the story of another magical boy. Young Myrddin hadn’t been cast upon the waters by a witch. But his birth was considered cursed, nonetheless—so cursed that when Gwrtheyrn, a real fifth century British king, needed blood to strengthen his castle foundations, Myrddin was considered a powerful otherworldly sacrifice. For hadn’t he been sired by his grandfather? Or indeed the devil himself! As a curious crowd gathered to witness the sacrificial rite, Myrddin saved himself with words and magic. Only he didn’t summon the wind, or unearth a cauldron filled with gold. He raised two stone coffers from the depths of a lake, and unleashed two ancient, prophetic dragons whose cries foretold of bloody battles to come.
How did the Myrddin feel, standing on the castle earthworks with those dragons screeching overhead? Had he truly been cursed at birth, as people believed? Or did he simply possess a poet’s soul like Taliesin? If so, what did that soul look like? Like Rhys all lit up like a candle in the middle of a story? Her dad, in the early days, making birdsong with his flute? A mistake, Ma had called their marriage, right from the beginning. Was that akin to being cursed? Bridie remembered her parents trading laughter and stories, like Rhys and Siân did of an afternoon. So, what had changed things?
‘Working on your voyage log, I see, Bridie?’
Bridie jumped at the sound of Ma’s voice, dropping her pencil. She dragged the notebook over her story.
Too late. Ma had clearly been standing there for ages.
‘I don’t know what’s got into you. I used to be able to trust you. But now every time my back is turned, I find you doing something sneaky.’
‘Not sneaky. Only … my writing’s private, that’s all.’
‘Up early, skipping breakfast, busy as a squirrel with your paper and pencils, afternoons spent working with the Bevans. Yet, when Alf asks about your voyage log, you’ve barely a civil word for him. Is there a reason for that, Bridie? Or am I imagining things?’
‘No.’
‘Would you elaborate, please? I’m having trouble following your logic.’
‘I don’t want to work with Alf. He’s silly.’
‘Silly! I’ve seen a fair bit of silliness coming from the base of the main mast these past afternoons and it’s got nothing to do with your voyage log, young lady. No matter what fibs you might be telling.’
‘Rhys and Siân are my friends, Ma. I enjoy their company.’
‘And Alf is good man, trying to be a good father to you.’
‘But he isn’t my dad. I’ve told you that already.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake, how many times do we have to go through this? Alf pays your bills, which is more than your precious father ever did. We’d have starved if not for Alf bringing us market greens at his own expense. You didn’t know that, did you? Or perhaps you chose not to notice? Alf cares about your future, young lady. He wants to guide you in the colony. But you won’t even give him a chance.’
‘A chance!’ Bridie scrambled to her feet. ‘What about my dad? You never gave him a chance. Even dead, you can’t say a single good word about him. It’s all about Dear-Mr-Trying-to-be-a-good-stepfather, Alf. Well, I don’t like him, Ma. I never will. No matter how often you sneak up, or try to lecture me.’
‘I gave your father plenty of chances. One day you’ll realise. You can love a man until your heart breaks—but sometimes it isn’t enough.’
Love! Not enough! The wind snatched at Bridie’s paper. She brought her foot down, trying to prevent the pages from fluttering across the deck. It didn’t help. Her thoughts, like her notes, had scattered everywhere. It took an age to gather them, by which time, Ma had spun on her heel and left. Good riddance, she thought; she had her friends and her stories—strange, half-true stories of cursed boys with poets’ souls, who summoned dragons and raised stone coffers. Besides, she’d never asked Alf to deliver market greens, or take an interest in her future. She certainly wasn’t going to let him guide her in the colony.
Bridie swiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her shift. Tears came so easily these day. Was it because of her bodice tightening? Maybe Ma was right. Maybe she was a young woman in the making?
No. She didn’t want to think about that either.
She swivelled round, saw Pam still waiting at the galley. Goodness, the water must be taking an age to boil. Though it was hardly surprising in today’s heavy swell. Sometimes they doused the galley fires completely. They were alight now, howev
er. Smoke belched from the narrow chimney. Bridie watched cook hand a steaming quart pot to Pam. She grasped its handle and turned her face towards the hatchway. Bridie held her breath. It was hard enough fetching water on a calm day, let alone in today’s blustery conditions. It didn’t help that two-year-old Lucy tugged at Pam’s skirts.
Today wasn’t a day for letting little girls help with boiling water. Pam was firm on that score. Halfway along the deck, she squatted down and pointed up at the sails. Thumb in her mouth, Lucy shook her head. Pam grasped the little girl’s shoulders and faced her into the buffeting wind. Lucy didn’t care for that logic either. At the hatchway, Pam propped the steaming quart pot against the awning post and stepped backwards onto the ladder. Lucy jerked free and made a grab for the pot. Pam’s eye caught the movement. Her hand shot out, missed. Lucy sprawled onto the deck. The pot slid sideways, slammed against the combings and overturned, spilling its scalding contents onto Lucy’s hand.
Bridie heard a wail, Pam’s shriek. From amidst a group of married men, Tom leapt to his feet. Pam clambered out from beneath the hatch cover and grabbed Lucy. The little girl howled, writhing in her arms.
‘Tom! Get Doctor Roberts, quick.’
Tom didn’t hesitate. He surged across the deck, scattering books, blankets and sewing projects in his wake. He pounded on the saloon doors. They inched open. The steward peered out. Bridie saw his mouth move. Tom’s red face pushed up close. The steward stepped back, slamming the door. Tom hollered, pummelled with his fists. After what seemed like an age, Doctor Roberts emerged, scowling from the saloon.
The crowd parted, as if he were Moses. Tom grabbed his elbow and steered him towards the dispensary. Bridie gathered her notebook and pencils and shoved her way to the front of the crowd. Doctor Roberts looked rather unsteady on his feet. Bridie doubted this had anything to do with the sea’s bilious roll. She knew the signs.
Pam grabbed Lucy’s flailing hand and flipped it over for him to see. Lucy shrieked, drumming her feet. Doctor Roberts peered down his nose as if she were a nasty insect.
‘A burn. Hmm … A bad one. Keep that wretched child still.’ He swung round, searching the crowd. ‘Miss Bowles? Where are you?’
‘Here.’ Annie stepped out from amidst a group of single girls.
‘I’ll need a dish of mutton fat. Ask the cook to oblige, please?’
The sea of faces parted. A minute later, Annie reappeared with a chipped enamel basin. Lucy’s wails had faded. Silent sobs wracked her little body. Even so, it took all Tom’s red-faced efforts to hold her while Doctor Roberts smeared the burn with mutton fat and wrapped her hand in a thick white bandage.
‘Keep her warm and quiet. We don’t want her going into shock.’
‘What about her thumb? She likes to suck that thumb.’
Dr Roberts’ lips curled, his smile putting Bridie in mind of a weasel or a ferret. ‘Well, Mrs Griggs, this should cure her of that nasty little habit.’
The Bevans didn’t join them for dinner. This wasn’t unusual. Siân often took Rhys’s plate onto the main deck. Today, with Lucy’s howls piercing the long dark tunnel of steerage, Bridie didn’t blame her.
Even the wind promised better company.
They ate a tense, mournful dinner with Lucy’s arch-backed form being passed back and forth between Pam and Annie. Each time, Lucy raised her thumb to her mouth and gagged on the bandage; each time brought a crashing wave of rediscovery.
Bridie ploughed through her salt-beef like a team of oxen. In between swallows, she forced down mouthfuls of chaff-dry ship’s biscuit. Once she’d finished eating, she jumped up to help Annie clear the table.
‘Leave it, Bridie. I’m on mess duties.’
‘It’s all right. You’re helping Pam.’
Annie shook her head. ‘It’s good to keep busy. Once I’ve cleared these plates, we’ll make a nice pot of tea.’
Tea! How could they drink tea with Lucy howling like a banshee?
Bridie watched Annie scrape and stack the plates. Tom fetched water from the galley. Pam scooped leaves into the teapot and set them aside to steep. Once she’d finished her mess duties, Annie took a turn with Lucy. But nothing could ease the little girl’s fury. Bridie gulped down her tea, never mind the scald in her throat, and shoved her empty mug to the centre of the table. She rose, gathered her writing materials.
‘Excuse me, miss. Where do you think you’re going?’
‘On deck, Ma. With Rhys and Siân.’
‘We’ve talked about this, Bridie. You know my views.’
‘But … they’ll be waiting.’
‘That’s all very well. But Pam needs help this afternoon. You can spend time with your family.’
‘Lucy’s not family.’
‘I won’t argue, Bridie. You’re staying. It’ll be good practice for when the baby comes.’
Bridie stomped back to her seat. She didn’t want to practise for the baby. Especially not for a big, round, pudding-faced baby that looked like Alf. Besides, Ma didn’t care about the baby. She only wanted to stop Bridie working on her stories.
Bridie propped her elbows on the table and jammed her fingers in her ears. It didn’t help. Lucy’s howls cut through her skin and bone like a knife. Once or twice, she almost fell asleep, her cries dropping to a low grizzling drone. Then deep subterranean sobs jerked her awake and the wails started over.
‘This can’t go on forever,’ Pam said, adjusting her skewed cap.
‘No,’ Annie agreed. ‘She has to tire eventually.’
Bridie didn’t believe them. Lucy’s cries were growing shriller and more insistent by the minute. She’d bitten her lip at some point during the afternoon. A combination of blood and drool smeared her cheeks. She looked like a changeling—a grotesque otherworldly child from one of Rhys’s stories. They’d have to brew beer in an egg cup or, failing that, find a hen without a single white tail feather. Otherwise, her crying would go on all night.
The Bevans came down the ladder as the ship’s bells chimed the dinner hour. Arms wide, Rhys steadied Siân as they staggered along the deck. He winked at Bridie, tossing his cap onto the bed. Siân’s eyes danced as Rhys undid the ribbons of her bonnet and, like a life-sized dolly-bobbin, unwound the scarf from about her neck. She clapped, stepped forward, and held her arms out to Lucy.
‘Come by here, Lucy bach. Give your mam a rest.’
Lucy writhed and kicked, a gnome in her distress. But, eventually, they managed to make the transfer. Pam sank onto the bench with a sigh.
‘It’s her thumb, see. She can’t suck it with all them bandages.’
‘We don’t even know the burn’s on ’er thumb.’ Tom broke his gloomy silence.
‘Course it is. Doctor Roberts wouldn’t have bound it otherwise.’
‘It wouldn’t hurt to look.’
Siân glanced from Tom to Pam. ‘I can check, if you like. My aunt was a healer. She often treated burns.’
‘There you are, Pam. She knows all about burns.’
‘Not me, Tom. My aunt.’
‘She’d untie the bandage though, wouldn’t she? This old aunt of yours?’
‘More than untie it. My aunt was a charmer. She would draw the heat from Lucy’s skin with her touch.’
‘Blimey! A witch.’
‘Tom!’
‘Don’t look at me like that, Pam. We live in the age of steam, not the bleedin’ dark ages.’
Siân shifted her attention back to Lucy. Snot nosed, her eyes were puffy red slits. Siân caught her flailing wrist. Rocking and soothing, she unwound the bandage, letting it fall in loose coils on the table. Opaque and jelly like, the blisters extended across the back of Lucy’s hand. Silence. Her thumb found her mouth. Annie sighed, her face softening. A smile parted Pam’s lips. Even Alf looked up from his plodding round of the deck. The only one seemingly unaffected by the sudden, blissful silence was Tom Griggs. He leaned forward, prodding at the blisters.
‘We’ll have to burst these.’
Lucy’s bottom lip trembled. Tom smiled, opening up his arms. ‘Come here, Lucy. Give your old dad a look.’
Lucy wasn’t stupid. She wrapped her legs around Siân and tightened the one-armed grip on her neck.
Siân hummed, rocking Lucy. ‘Hot is it, bach?’
Lucy nodded, grizzling. Siân pulled back her sleeve. ‘Ask the heat to come out then, shall we?’
Tom shifted, uneasily. ‘Bit daft to raise her expectations. She’ll be fine now she’s got her thumb.’
Siân began to circle the burn with her forefinger. ‘I’ve not done it before, mind. Let’s see if I can remember the charm. Daeth tair angel fach o’r gorllewin.’
Bridie glanced sideways at Rhys. He’d turned stone-still during this conversation, his eyes a coal dark gleam. It brought to mind their conversation on the main deck. When Bridie asked about the Lady of the Lake, he’d put her at ease by speaking of Rhonwen. But later, when she’d asked whether Siân knew things, he’d shut down. She saw the same flicker of alarm in his eyes now. Somehow, she didn’t think a burn charm fell into the same category as healing with plants.
‘Leave it be, now, cariad. She’s got her thumb.’
Siân didn’t seem to hear. Eyes closed, focused inwards, she continued chanting. ‘Pob un ohnyn nhw yn profi ’r tân—’
‘No!’ Rhys grabbed her wrist.
Siân blinked, eyes wide open, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘But … no harm surely, if I try?’
‘Leave it, now, Siân.’
They sat, locked in the silent battle of each other’s gaze. Eventually, Siân lowered her eyes. Rhys released his grip on her wrist. Tom held out his arms to Lucy. She hadn’t forgotten about the bursting. She burrowed down into Siân’s lap.
‘Hist, cariad, Tadda won’t hurt you.’
‘Course I won’t bleedin’ hurt her. Come here, Lucy.’
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