Lucy held tight, her fingers digging into the soft skin of Siân’s neck. Bridie wouldn’t have thought she had the energy. But, as Tom tugged and Siân coaxed, the bubble popped and Lucy resumed her high-pitched wail.
It was a like nightmare, a bizarre reoccurring dream. Bridie moaned, clapping her hands to her ears. Rhys jumped up, grabbed his fiddle and raised it to his chin.
‘This one’s called “Counting the Goats”,’ he called across the deck.
Tom frowned at the interruption, but gave up trying to coax Lucy into his arms. The little girl snuggled close to Siân. Rhys began to sing.
‘Oes gafr eto?
Oes heb ei godro?
Ar y creigiau geirwon,
Mae’r, hen afr yn crwydro.’
The Welsh words were impossible, but they all sang in English as Rhys drew music from the strings with his bow. Eventually, even Tom Griggs joined in. His deep voice reluctant at first, but becoming wholehearted as he sang the counterpoint to Rhys.
‘Is there another goat?
That’s not been milked?
On the craggy rocks
The old goat is wandering.’
The song was a repetition rhyme, the chorus increasing speed with every round.
‘Goat white, white, white,
With her lip white, lip white, lip white …’
Bridie laughed and sang as the goats changed colour and the tension of the afternoon seeped out of her. Siân didn’t join in the singing. Head bowed, she rocked Lucy in silence. By the second verse, the little girl’s eyelids drooped. As the blue goat became a red goat, her head lolled. Her arms hung heavy at her sides. Siân rose, tiptoed to Lucy’s bunk and tucked her beneath the covers.
As the song finished, Rhys launched into another, his gaze seeking Siân’s. She didn’t return his gaze, only slipped back up the ladder onto the main deck. Rhys drank his tea in silence. After helping with the dishes, he spent the remainder of the evening hunched at the table. He didn’t lift his head, even when Siân returned, eyes red, and crawled into their bed. He sat still, silent, as if made of granite. Not joining Siân until the carpenter turned down the lamps.
In her bunk beside Annie, Bridie huddled beneath the bedclothes, trying to make sense of their strange afternoon. Had Siân been serious about the charm? Or was it simply a game made up for Lucy’s benefit? No, Rhys’s alarm had been real, real enough to make his troubles return. But why? What was the harm? The charm couldn’t be dangerous. Not if Rhonwen had used it. But maybe it was like knowing things; something that was all right for the wise woman but not for Siân.
As the deck fell silent, Bridie heard a hissing in the bed beside Alf and Ma’s. The Bevans spoke in Welsh. But she had no need of a translation. She heard fear in Rhys’s voice, Siân’s tear-choked replies, and knew they were arguing about the charm. For some reason the knowledge brought an ache to her throat. Hugging her notebook to her chest, she wept for the message on its flyleaf, the Fairy Woman’s tragic tale, and the strange, bitter end to her parent’s marriage—and for their love that wasn’t enough.
Chapter 11
Lucy’s accident was only the beginning. The following day, Thaddy, one of the little Irish boys, fell and split his lip. A week later, one of the single girls sprained her ankle. They had an outbreak of lice in steerage. No matter how often Alf swept, he couldn’t rid the deck of the pests. He spent his days explaining the benefits of a washing in a basin beneath the pump, the need to air bedding, to change linen regularly; his evenings listening to the restless timbre of people’s voices. For as the temperature rose, so did people’s tempers. They had raised fists among the single men, complaints about hygiene from the after part of the deck while mothers bewailed compulsory salt-water baths, laundry soap that didn’t lather, and the paucity of their water rations. Alf didn’t dare take such petty concerns to Doctor Roberts. But, eventually, the squabbling reached his ears.
‘People are bored, Bustle. They need a diversion. Fortunately, I’ve anticipated the situation. We have a clergyman on board, as you know. Reverend Cummings has agreed to act as schoolmaster. He can’t perform the task alone. He’ll need monitors. What about it, Bustle? Can you organise something?’
Alf shuffled, not meeting Doctor Roberts’ gaze. He could scarcely manage his current tasks, let alone run a school for Doctor Roberts.
‘I’m not asking you to be a monitor, Bustle. You’re far too indispensable as cleaning constable. Just sound people out, give me a list of names. Reverend Cummings can take it from there.’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’
Doctor Roberts clapped him on the back. ‘Good man. I knew I could rely on you.’
Alf swelled with pride. He’d been working hard, trying to anticipate Doctor Roberts’ every need. Once or twice, he’d dared to hope the surgeon was coming to rely on him. But, Good man! Indispensable! Those were words generally reserved for successful men. As if he didn’t have the energy to organise monitors now. He’d have run the whole school if Doctor Roberts asked him, and scrubbed out the privy buckets single-handed.
‘I’ve got important news,’ he announced at supper that evening.
‘Don’t tell me.’ Tom spat onto the deck. ‘As well as having to change our linen we’ve got to bathe again in the morning.’
‘You can scoff, Tom. But hygiene keeps disease at bay. Doctor Roberts told me.’
‘Well bully for him. So, what’s the news? Are we getting our wine rations?’
‘No. We’re not getting our wine rations.’ Alf strove to keep the irritation from his voice. ‘We’re being offered a chance to improve ourselves.’
‘I can’t think of anything more improving than a mug o’ wine, Alf. I’ll bet your fancy Mr-Top-Hat-and-Tails surgeon would agree with me. Besides, we’ve been at sea more than twenty days. We’re entitled to regular wine rations.’
Alf decided to ignore that comment. Wine rations were a courtesy, not a right, and conditional on good behaviour. But with all this bickering, was it any wonder they were being withheld? ‘What about learning to read and write, Tom? Would that interest you?’
‘No thanks. I’m doing fine already.’
‘Yes, of course, you are. We all are, but … Doctor Roberts is organising a school, here on the ship. With Reverend Cummings as schoolmaster. What about it, Tom? Will you take part?’
‘I ain’t a child.’
‘Not an infant school. One for adults. Like a Methodist Sunday school. But you could teach Billy and Lucy afterwards.’ He swivelled round. ‘What about Pam? Are you interested?’
‘Pam ain’t got time. She’s minding the kids.’
Alf shifted, mopping his brow. This wasn’t going as he’d imagined. Tom ought to be jumping at the chance of an education. How did he think Alf achieved his current position? By sitting around scoffing? No, he’d worked hard, taught himself to read and write by candlelight, written an excellent application and, now look, Doctor Roberts had come to rely on him. He turned to Mary. ‘What about you, love?’
‘I can read and write already.’
This was true. But it wasn’t the answer Alf was looking for. Mary had grown so pale and thin since the seasickness. Now, in this heat, she seemed to be losing interest in everything.
‘You needn’t be a student, love. Doctor Roberts is looking for monitors. You’d be good at that. And it would give you something to do each day. Perk you up a bit.’
‘No.’ Mary didn’t want perking up.
Fortunately, others were less resistant. Young Annie was keen, despite her duties at the dispensary. So were Rhys and Siân. This meant Bridie also wanted to take part. The latter didn’t please Alf. She was spending too much time with the Bevans already. But he couldn’t forbid her attendance. Not without setting a bad example. He put her name on the monitors list.
Two days later the school was established. Alf was too busy to attend. But he insisted the other cleaners take part, happily shouldering the extra responsibilities. Alf surveyed the dimly lit
deck. Mr Rolf had emptied the privy buckets. The single girls had taken their mattresses onto the main deck for airing. In their absence, Alf would disinfect the baseboards of their bunks. Steerage still smelled damp and unsavoury. He’d have to light the aromatic stoves. He’d noticed a build-up of grime at the single men’s end of the table. But first, he must check on the school. Bridie had spent more time chatting to the Bevans yesterday than helping the other students. He bent and touched a hand to Mary’s shoulder.
‘That’s it, love. I’m going to see how Bridie’s getting along.’
Mary smiled, raising a hand to his cheek. ‘You’re a good man, Alf Bustle. One day she’ll thank you for taking an interest.’
Thank him? So far she’d done nothing but evade him. ‘Why don’t you come with me, love? The weather’s glorious.’
‘I’d like to, Alf. But my ankles are that swollen. I’d better rest them.’
Lugging a bucket of water up the ladder was no easy task. Neither was carrying it across the tilting main deck. Alf tipped the miry water into the sea and threaded his way back towards the galley. He’d need fresh water for scrubbing the tables. But no point sloshing it over the students. Propping the hawse bucket against the water butt, he heard the cook singing in the galley.
‘Time for us to leave cold weather,
Time for us to go—oh—oh …’
It was a pumping song, one of Bridie’s favourites. The sailors sang it every evening as they pumped bilge from the hold. Alf remembered the night Bridie had first shown him the lyrics. He’d been so tired that night (wasn’t he always tired?). She’d insisted on making a second draft and, somehow, the moment had passed. Like every other moment, now she had the Bevans for company.
Alf’s worried eyes sought Reverend Cummings. The plump clergyman wore his clerical collar with pride, but Alf suspected the schoolmaster’s cap didn’t fit so easily. His round face looked rosy as a plum in the bright morning sun and, despite the regularity of the ship’s bells, he kept his fob watch handy. His gaze kept straying towards the comfort of the saloon.
‘A school in the sun,’ Alf said, stepping alongside. ‘Are your scholars progressing?’
‘A pleasant morning with pleasing progress.’ Reverend Cummings gave a beatific smile.
‘And my stepdaughter, Bridie? She’s working hard, I hope?’
‘She is an asset to the class.’
Reverend Cummings had egg on his waistcoat. The man ate more than was good for him. But it seemed a harmless vice. Apart from that, he was an intelligent man and not unsympathetic to people’s trials.
‘She’s a bright child, but rather lonely. Her father passed away in difficult circumstances. I’ve tried to make it up to her. But … her head’s so full of whimsy.’
‘You’re right to be concerned. A young girl needs a father’s guidance.’
‘She’ll be sixteen in the new year … and with things as they are in the colony … I can’t help worrying.’
‘She’s a fanciful girl, Mr Bustle, but far from foolish. She’ll turn to you when she needs you. Meanwhile, she’s not without friendships. The young Welsh couple seem to have taken her under their wing. Let that be a comfort.’
A comfort! It was hardly a comfort. The Bevans were part of the problem as far as Alf was concerned. He’d seen them laughing and play-acting of an afternoon, caught the gist of their conversations. Knew Rhys was filling Bridie’s head with nonsense. But he could hardly say that to Reverend Cummings. Not without sounding ungrateful.
‘Yes, of course, a great comfort. I’ve come to see how they’re getting along.’
As Reverend Cummings turned back to his class, Alf sidled over to where Bridie sat with her friends. They were reading from a religious tract, one of the many brought on board by a tall, thin man with a benevolent smile. Today’s text was from the Psalms.
‘They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters; these see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.’
Annie was stuck on the word business. Bridie struggled to explain.
‘B-u-s-i-n-e-s-s. Can you see the whole word, Annie? All those letters say business.’
Annie grimaced. ‘I know the word busy.’
‘Yes, except business is different to busyness. You put an i instead of a y and it changes the meaning.’
Alf smiled. He’d taken no part in Bridie’s formal education. But he’d seen the tattered book of fairy tales from which she had learned her letters, had watched her rise to the top the charity school on Hart Street. Reading, writing or adding up long lists of figures, Bridie was in her element. She’d never have stumbled over her words as Annie was doing now. Yet she was making a great deal of effort with the older girl. This was something Alf could take comfort in.
‘With some words you have to sound them out, Annie, then memorise them. Have a go at reading the whole sentence. I’ll see if anyone else needs help.’
Annie read slowly, her finger moving from word to word across the page. Bridie grabbed her wad of scrap paper and slithered across the deck towards Rhys and Siân. They were reading from the same text.
‘The letters ‘s’ and ‘h’ make a ‘sh’ sound in English.’ Rhys explained. ‘Like in the words ship or shop.’
‘They that go down to the sea in ships.’ Siân emphasised the sound as if etching it into her mind. Bridie leaned forward, pointing at the text.
‘Don’t you have a ‘sh’ sound in Welsh, then?’
‘We have the sound, yes, but we don’t make it the way you do.’
‘Truly? How do you make it, then?’
Rhys pulled out a pencil stub and wrote the word Siân with a few deft strokes. He passed the slip of paper over to Bridie. She smoothed it out, running her finger over the words, as if they were a message from the queen, not a hastily scrawled note. She looked up at him, eyes ashine.
‘So, the ‘s’ and the ‘i’ make a ‘sh’ sound?’
Alf saw the light in Bridie’s eyes, the animation of her face, the interest she took in Rhys’s explanations, and felt a jealous bile rise in his throat. He’d tried so hard to engage her interest—talked about the weather, pointed out the wondrous birdlife they encountered on a daily basis, corrected her notes and observations. In the beginning, he’d had a chance of succeeding. Now, this soft-voiced storyteller was going to ruin everything.
Alf closed his eyes, ignoring the scald in his throat, and tried to focus on Reverend Cummings’ voice.
‘For he commandeth and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof. They mount up to the heaven, they go down to the depths: their soul is melted because of trouble.’
The word storm had taken on new meaning since setting sail. Alf could almost hear the wind and the waves as Reverend Cummings evoked them with his voice. He breathed deep, letting the salt spray fall on his upturned cheeks and waited. He wasn’t sure what for—a sign, perhaps, a shaft of inspiration, some quiet affirmation that Reverend Cummings had spoken the truth. That Bridie would turn to him, before it was too late.
Nothing came. Alf opened his eyes.
From her wide-eyed absorption, Alf guessed Bridie and Rhys were no longer studying the text.
‘Siân is like the Irish, Siobhán. See how they both have an ‘si’ at the beginning. They’re not spelled the same and they have different accents over the ‘a’ but, in truth, they’re one and the same name—both mean God’s gracious gift.’
‘Oh, do Welsh names all have meanings, then?’
‘Indeed. Not only Welsh ones. Your name means strong or exalted one, does it not?’
‘My dad chose it. But … how did you know?’
‘Well now, Bridie Stewart, before Wales had an English church, or even a Roman church, we had our own church. Bride was one of our saints too. She sailed from Ireland, the poets tell us, with only a piece of turf for her cwch. Once on our shores, she changed stones into honey to feed the poor, and made small boneless fish from rushes. But before Bride was
ever a saint, she was one of the old ones—a goddess.’
‘Yes. In Scotland too!’
‘Well now, that’s the beauty of a myth. It knows no bounds.’
‘In Scotland, Bride was captured by the Winter Queen, who was a witch, like the green woman in ‘Sili go Dwt’. To keep her youth, the witch bathed in a magic well high up in the mountains. Bride had to learn her secrets of the well in order to escape. When she did, she inherited the Winter Queen’s wisdom and power.’
‘Indeed, your dad named you well, naming you for Bride. She was the goddess of fire and healing and poetry. Only, in Wales, we don’t write her name as you do. We write it like this: Ffraid.’
What a load of rubbish. Alf began to see why Bridie enjoyed Rhys’s company so much. But it wasn’t helpful, or even appropriate. She’d be far better employed helping the other students. He coughed, clearing his throat. Rhys glanced up smiling from their task.
‘Morning, Mr Bustle. Enjoying the sun, are you?’
‘Only for a brief spell.’ Alf crouched down, forced a smile. ‘Are we making any headway?’
‘English is nothing like Welsh.’ Siân pulled a wry face.
‘Yes. I couldn’t help overhearing. It must be quite a trial.’ He turned to Bridie. ‘What about you, lass? I heard you helping Annie earlier. You were doing a good job. Then you seemed to become a little … distracted?’
‘No.’ Her chin rose. ‘I’ve been learning things.’
‘And … what can you tell me?’
‘Well, for a start, the letters of our alphabet make different sounds in Welsh.’
‘I gathered that, Bridie.’
‘No, you don’t understand. Even my name is spelled differently. Look, it starts with an ‘Ff.’ And Rhys has been talking about its meaning and, well … we might have talked about some other things too.’
‘What kind of things?’
‘Err … nothing. It doesn’t matter.’
‘I think it does. Especially here, in the school. You are supposed to be helping Reverend Cummings. Not wasting your time on the Welsh alphabet.’
The Tides Between Page 11