‘I’m allowed to talk to my friends.’
‘Indeed, you’ve been doing a lot of that lately, the afternoons in particular. You seem to be having a grand old time. Loads of drafting and redrafting in the mornings, too, and all for your voyage log, I believe?’
Bridie flushed, glancing sideways at Rhys. ‘Yes, well, we talk about lots of things.’
‘Really! What kind of things?’
Bridie shifted, dropping her gaze. ‘Well … we don’t work on the voyage log, all the time. In fact, not much at all, and sometimes, umm … well, quite often, Rhys tells …’
‘Stories?’
‘Yes.’ She swallowed, looking up at him.
‘No need to pretend, Bridie. I’d guessed as much, seeing as I’m neither blind, deaf or stupid. Though, I must say I find it disappointing, in the circumstances.’
‘No, Alf. You don’t understand. It’s improving, even though it’s fairy tales.’
‘I don’t see how it can be.’
‘I’m working on my spelling, that’s how, and my punctuation, putting all those dots in the right places. I’ll be an asset to a man with a business. You’ve said it yourself. And Rhys is helping me.’
‘It’s true, Mr Bustle. She’ll not put a word in that notebook until it’s perfect.’
‘That’s all very well but—’ Alf froze. He glanced from Bridie, to Rhys, then back again. ‘Words? In her notebook?’
‘Yes. Only once the story’s perfect, mind.’
Stories! In her notebook! Alf swung round. ‘Is this true, Bridie?’
No answer.
Alf sucked in breath. After all this time, all his patience, the days he’d berated himself for his busyness, letting her make second drafts, third, praising her commitment, and all the while she had been stringing him along like a fish. ‘Were you going to tell me, Bridie? Or keep on lying?’
Still no answer. Bridie’s face flushed pink.
‘Stupid old Alf, is that what you thought? Slip him an observation, now and then. Jot down a chant. He’ll never work it out. We made an agreement, Bridie. Back in Deptford. To work on a voyage log.’
‘You wouldn’t understand. You never do. Why should I bother explaining?’
‘I understand lies, Bridie.’
‘If I’d told you the truth, you’d only have tried to stop me.’
This was true. Alf paused, conscious of a sudden watchful silence. All around him, young men jabbed their friends in the ribs, single girls whispered behind raised hands, their tracts fluttering forgotten in the breeze. Talk about wasting time; he’d drawn the whole school into their argument.
‘You never know. I might have surprised you.’
‘You? Surprise me! I doubt it. You and Ma have been in cahoots from the beginning. That’s what all this is about, isn’t it? Trying to make me forget my dad—and his stories.’
‘It’s about helping you grow up, to see the world as it is for a change. Not as some extended fairy tale.’
‘I don’t want to grow up. Or see the world the way you do. It’s boring.’
Alf stepped back, seeing her hate-slitted eyes, the way her body shook with fury. Dear God, how had it come to this? He’d only meant to challenge her. Not back her into a corner.
‘If you’ve got time for fairy tales, I expect you’ll have time for some sensible, nautical observations as well.’
‘I won’t. I’m too busy.’
‘Then I’m asking you to make time, Bridie.’
‘No! It’s stupid.’ She jumped to her feet. ‘You can go on about your voyage log, you can talk about the wind and the sails and all the other foolish topics that interest you. But you can’t stop me writing stories, or talking to my friends. You’re not my dad, Alf. You can’t make me do anything.’
She bunched her skirts, and dashed across the deck. Arms heavy at his sides, Alf watched her flight, aware of Rhys’s face mute with apology, the averted gazes of Annie and Siân. He felt Reverend Cummings lay a plump hand on his shoulder. Alf’s vision blurred. Bridie didn’t want his guidance, or his friendship. She’d never intended sharing her notebook. Why hadn’t he seen this? Why was he always so blind?
Chapter 12
In horror, Rhys watched Alf stumble across the deck, his movements slow and stiff as an old dog whose master had unexpectedly turned on him. Rhys had known Bridie was supposed to be working on a voyage log, but not that she’d promised to share her notebook with Alf. How could he have known? No one had told him, least of all Bridie.
‘Right.’ Reverend Cummings cleared his throat. ‘Where were we?’
Good question, Welsh names? The text? Rhys had no recollection. Beside him, Annie kept her gaze fixed on the deck. Siân’s eyes swam with sympathy.
‘Now young man, you mustn’t blame yourself.’ Reverend Cummings’ eyes winked kindly. ‘The problem started long before your friendship.’
This may have been true, but Rhys didn’t find his words reassuring.
‘The Lord works in mysterious ways,’ Reverend Cummings added. ‘We must leave the situation in his hands. But I will remember the girl and her father in my intercessions.’
God works in mysterious ways,
His wonders to perform;
He plants his foot steps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.
Having been raised Chapel, Rhys was familiar with the words to Cowper’s famous hymn. They filled his head like a refrain as he struggled through the remainder of the lesson, the lyrics melding with the sombre words of the text.
They mount up to heaven, they go down again to the depths: their soul is melted because of trouble.
For some reason, Rhys felt his father’s dark-suited presence. Saw his calloused hands raised, ready to start conducting the chapel choir. Every word of the anthem directed at him, the coward, who’d run away. Iesu, what was he supposed to do now? Confront Bridie, demand an explanation? Apologise to Alf Bustle?
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace,
Behind a frowning providence,
He hides a smiling face.
No disrespect to Reverend Cummings, but he found the Almighty’s ways too mysterious to fathom. As for a smiling face … night after night, as Rhys paced the moonlit deck, he saw nothing but Tad’s sneering countenance.
‘Bydd popeth yn iawn.’ Siân whispered. Everything will be fine.
‘Na fydd.’ Throat tight, Rhys shook his head.
‘Nid ti sydd ar fai.’
Not to blame! Why was everyone saying that? He’d been so caught up in his troubles, he’d failed to notice what was happening. How could that not be his fault? His fear, the journey he’d insisted they make, the baby growing to fullness inside Siân. They were all his fault. And now, this terrible argument.
At last, the lesson finished. Rhys forced himself down the ladder into steerage. Alf wouldn’t look at him during dinnertime. Bridie also seemed to be avoiding his gaze. Rhys trudged back up the ladder. What now? Slip behind the horsebox?
‘No.’ Siân caught at his arm. ‘We should wait for her, Rhys.’
Rhys swallowed, looking down into her upturned face. She didn’t care, that was the problem—about Alf or Bridie. No, that wasn’t fair. Siân cared. But not enough to risk his sanity. He needed their story sessions, and Siân knew. She wasn’t going to let him slip away without a fight. God knows they’d had enough of those since boarding this ship.
‘It wouldn’t be right to continue, Siân. Why can’t you see that? Why must you always doubt me?’
‘Not doubting, cariad. Only trying to help.’
‘Help! Is that what you call it? Interfering in another man’s family?’
‘A crime, is it, now? To tell a story?’
‘Not a crime. But still driving a wedge. Iesu! Think of the meddling I’ve endured over the years. All those friends of my father urging me not to shame him, thinking they knew best, that their words would somehow cure me. None of it helped, Siân
. Only added to the burden. Now, I’m guilty of the same interference.’
‘You didn’t mean to interfere, Rhys. Surely that alters things.’
‘Not to Alf Bustle it doesn’t.’
‘The rift was there, long before your friendship. Only stories can bring their healing now—for you and for Bridie.’
Rhys shivered, aware of her scent, the warmth of their fingers entwining. Dear God, all he’d wanted was a future, a place to raise their children without fear and prejudice. Yet here they were, like a skein of wool unravelling.
‘He’s a good man, Siân. I’ll not undermine him.’
‘Then you must tell Bridie yourself. She deserves that courtesy.’
Siân took her place at the base of the main mast. Rhys couldn’t settle. He strode back and forth, trying not to imagine the long afternoons without stories, every bell-toll a reminder of the coming night in steerage. He rarely made it through an entire night, spent most his pre-dawn hours pacing main deck. The sailors didn’t question his presence, they seemed to understand his need for space and privacy. Only when Doctor Roberts scratched on Mrs Scarcebrook’s door in the early hours of the morning did he feel a need to duck behind the horsebox.
At last, here was Bridie. Stepping over the rotten wood of the combings, she adjusted her writing materials and marched towards them.
‘Bridie, I had no idea about the voyage log.’
‘No. I didn’t want you to know. It’s stupid. Alf’s stupid.’
‘But, can you not see? This puts me in a terrible position.’
‘It’s my notebook.’
‘I’m an adult, Bridie. Expecting my first child. I’d not take kindly to another man interfering in my family.’
‘I never asked to be part of Alf’s family, or to share my notebook. Besides, I’m an adult too, a young woman in the making, so Ma keeps telling me.’
‘Adults keep their word, Bridie.’
‘And you promised stories.’
‘Under false pretences. Without your stepfather’s permission.’
‘I don’t need Alf’s permission. I’ve told you already. But I do need your stories. Don’t you see? They’re helping. I thought they were helping you too, that we were friends. Maybe I was wrong?’
Nefi, what to do? She looked so small and lost with her eyes brimming. Not nearly the adult she claimed to be. He reached out, brushing a tear from her cheek.
‘No, bach. You’re not mistaken. I need the stories too. And your friendship. But adulthood brings responsibility. Can you not see? It wouldn’t be right for me to continue. No matter how I wish it otherwise. Not without your stepfather’s permission.’
‘Then ask him, please, Rhys. For the sake of our friendship.’
It wasn’t easy catching Alf alone. When Rhys waited at the entrance to the back hatch, Alf used the front hatch. If they were rostered on mess duties together, Alf altered the schedule. Even when Rhys squeezed onto the bench beside him at dinnertime, Alf angled his shoulder in the opposite direction. In the end, Rhys had no choice but to shove trembling hands in his pockets and confront him during cleaning.
‘Watch out,’ Harvey Rolf snapped as Rhys dodged a pile of sweepings. ‘We’ve a job to do here.’
‘Indeed, an important one. It’s Mr Bustle I’m after.’
‘He’s busy.’ Mr Rolf jerked his chin in Alf’s direction.
‘I’ll wait, then. If you don’t mind. I’d like to speak with him alone.’
Alf took an age to finish the cleaning. It seemed to Rhys he gave the task far more attention than necessary. But even Alf couldn’t scrub forever. As Mr Rolf and the other steerage cleaners filed up the ladder for their lesson, Rhys found the older man alone.
‘Mr Bustle, I owe you an apology.’
‘No, you don’t. Leave matters alone.’ Alf hefted the hawse bucket and turned towards the hatchway.
‘Please. Wait.’ Rhys grabbed his arm. ‘I appreciate your anger, Mr Bustle. Truly. But I ask you to hear me out. I had no idea Bridie had agreed to share her notebook. I hope you believe me.’
‘I know my stepdaughter, young man. Better than you realise.’
‘I don’t doubt it, Mr Bustle, and I’ve no desire to interfere in your family. I’ll be telling stories Friday nights, as people have come to expect it. But I’ll not work with Bridie again without your permission. I’ve told her as much.’
Alf lowered the bucket, his blue eyes clouded. With what? Doubt? Confusion? Rhys couldn’t tell. Only that the shadows spoke of a long and difficult journey.
‘Do you know what it’s like to compete with a ghost, young man, to never be funny enough, or clever enough, or even fanciful enough? To butt your head against an enormous rock of affection?’
‘My father isn’t dead, Mr Bustle. But I know how it feels not to measure up. Even here, on this ship, his presence haunts me.’
‘I thought, once we left Covent Garden with its taverns and theatres, the cellar where her father practised, I’d stand a chance. That with time and distance, his presence would fade. But, still, she has her notebook and you are resurrecting him daily.’
‘I’m sorry. I had no idea.’
‘No, young man. You don’t have any idea.’
‘I’m an adult, Mr Bustle. I still find comfort in stories. They are like parables; the kind you might find in scripture. From an earlier time, perhaps, and somewhat more fanciful. Yet still they hold lessons. Maybe the lesson Bridie needs. She weeps, sometimes. Did you know that? And, though it may feel like you are butting your head against a great rock, I see disappointment walking hand-in-hand with that enormous affection.’
Alf shook his head. ‘He didn’t die well. He was a drunk and a dreamer. In the end—’
‘No, please.’ Rhys held up a hand. ‘Let’s not break her confidence. I don’t expect you to understand my request, Mr Bustle. Or to give me your blessing. Only a chance, that’s all I’m asking, to let the stories work their magic.’
‘I’m a plain man, Rhys. I don’t believe in magic. But I know when I’m not wanted. If you can fill that notebook by the end of the voyage, so that Bridie arrives in Port Phillip with a sense that her childhood, like its pages, are well and truly finished, then you’ll not only have my permission, son, you will also have my blessing.’
Chapter 13
Alf and Bridie weren’t the only ones arguing. By midweek, the wind had dropped and Lady Sophia reeled to the bark of her ship’s officers. No matter how many times they dropped the speed log over the side, or how often the sailors set and reset the sails, it made no difference. They weren’t going anywhere.
All day, Rhys sat on the windless main deck, his skin blistering. At night, when the sun dipped its fiery orb into the sea, he found sleep impossible. Even with windsocks set up over the hatchways, they couldn’t keep the air circulating. He heard moans as he padded through steerage in the early hours of the morning, children whimpering. As one windless day gave way to another, the bickering became hostility.
Patrick O’Malley, one of the Irish lads, punched his brother on the nose for shirking mess duties. Shrill female voices accused each other of pilfering. Millie Burns, one of the younger married women, declared she no longer wanted to sleep with her husband. Alarmed, a red-faced Frank Burns took his problem to Doctor Roberts.
‘If the married men could take their bedding on deck while the wind is absent, it would cool our wives’ tempers.’
‘Certainly not, Mr Burns. I keep a disciplined ship.’
‘But my Millie’s that savage with the heat. She’s not slept a wink with all my tossing and turning.’
‘No doubt, your wife is savage. But I’m afraid she must find another way to cool her temper.’
‘Cool! As if anyone could keep cool in this heat.’
Rhys heard the snarl of discontent as he climbed down the ladder into streerage that evening. There were no maps or letter books laid out on the table, precious few sewing projects. Women leaned forward, gossiping behind raised ha
nds. Men slapped cards down, their talk a growl of anger and frustration.
‘Who does he think he is? If my wife don’t get some sleep she’ll murder the kids.’
‘It’s all right for him. He’s got portholes in his cabin. A steward to bring him drinks.’
‘His cabin! As if he’s sleeping in his cabin!’ Frank Burns slammed his cards down on the table. ‘More likely visiting that matron of his.’
Rhys flipped open his violin case. They had practised ‘The Fairy Ointment’ for tonight—the story of an old midwife who’d rubbed an eye with ointment and realised the woman she was tending had been captured by the fairies. A traditional tale, though not exclusive to Wales. Bridie had been enchanted by the notion of seeing through different eyes. But tonight, with this mood, would it hold their audience? He glanced sideways. Could Siân feel it too? The violence pulsing beneath the surface?
She frowned, shook her head. Please, Rhys, stick with the plan.
Iesu, why must she always doubt him? They had other tales—tragedies to set men weeping, rousing political tales to nurse their fury. Though he doubted they would accord with Doctor Roberts’ idea of a ‘disciplined ship’. Maybe that was Siân’s concern. Maybe she was right.
Rhys breathed deep, loosed his kerchief, and sank onto the bench. Beside him, Pam tutted as she examined a hole in Billy’s stocking. Mary sat, fan in hand, listening to her prattle. Tom and Alf were squabbling, as usual, the tension between them rising. But though sweat rimmed Tom’s armpits, they weren’t bewailing the heat, or Doctor Roberts’ refusal to let the married men sleep on deck. They were arguing the terms of Annie’s employment.
‘Mrs Scarcebrook ain’t doing her job,’ Tom jabbed the table with a stubby forefinger, ‘and our Annie ought get paid for helping.’
‘Doctor Roberts is a professional man, Tom, and a busy one. It’s probably slipped his mind. Besides, it’s not as clear-cut as you think. Mrs Scarcebrook’s still doing his paperwork.’
‘And Annie’s working at the dispensary.’
‘Annie likes helping. She told me.’
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