Back in steerage, Alf had no desire to talk about the interview—especially not with Rhys seated at the table opposite. But Tom Griggs had no such reservations. Pushing his empty dinner plate aside, he bared his yellow teeth.
‘Come on, Alf. Spill the beans.’
‘There’s nothing to spill.’
‘Go on! After last night, there must have been hell to pay.’
Alf didn’t answer. Shovelling salt-pork into his mouth, he glanced sideway at Rhys. The Welsh lad sat in his usual white-faced silence, barely touching the food on his plate. Was he a criminal, as Doctor Roberts suggested, fleeing some terrible past misdemeanour? Alf could scarcely credit the notion. Nor could he imagine the Welsh lad causing any more trouble. Indeed, if the smudges beneath his eyes were any indication, Rhys wasn’t so much a troublemaker as the one troubled.
Still, who was he to question Doctor Roberts’ judgment? He’d been warned once and had failed to heed that warning. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. Whether Rhys was a troublemaker, or troubled, Alf intended to keep an eye on him.
‘Did you ask about Annie’s pay?’ Tom broke into his thoughts.
‘Yes. I did, in fact.’
‘And … what did he say?’
‘Nothing specific. We have an understanding.’
Alf smiled as he said the words, though they weren’t strictly true. Doctor Roberts hadn’t promised anything. But who needed promises? Doctor Roberts had called him solid, not prone to hasty judgments. As a colleague, Alf could raise the matter anytime and be certain of a fair hearing.
‘An understanding? What’s the good of that?’
‘Doctor Roberts had more pressing things on his mind. There wasn’t time for lengthy discussion.’
‘Meanwhile, Annie works for nothing.’
‘Doctor Roberts is a reasonable man. I think we can assume her pay will be backdated.’
Tom appeared somewhat mollified by this statement even as Alf’s own quiet confidence surprised him. He felt puffed up, important, as if someone had worked a bellows in him.
‘What about our wine rations?’
‘I didn’t ask about the wine.’
‘We can’t let him keep it.’
‘I’m not suggesting we let Doctor Roberts keep our wine rations. But the morning after a riot was hardly the time to raise the matter.’
‘When is a good time?’
‘I don’t know. Doctor Roberts is a busy man. I’ll have to work out the best way to approach him.’
‘What about a letter? We could all sign it?’
Alf reached for his mug and took a swig of tea. Despite his newfound calm, a knob of salt-pork had lodged in his throat. ‘I doubt he’d take kindly to that strategy.’
‘Then we’ll go to Captain Thompson.’
‘He won’t interfere. Rations are the surgeon’s responsibility.’
‘He will, if I tell him Doctor Roberts is stealing our wine rations.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. What would Doctor Roberts want with our wine?’
‘Well, he might be gargling with them, Alf, or washing his socks in them. But my guess is he’s drinking them.’
‘That’s absurd. You’ve got no proof.’
‘No proof!’
‘None.’ Alf glared back at him. Why did Tom look so smug? And why was Rhys smiling? He took another swig of tea, glanced from Rhys to Tom and back again. ‘Well, you haven’t, have you?’
‘Come off it, Alf! You could light a lantern with his breath.’
Alf coughed, spluttered, the tea gurgling in his throat. For some reason, it wouldn’t go down. His throat was like a drain clogged up with salt-pork. Rhys thumped his back. It didn’t help. Alf’s eyes streamed. Tom was right, damn it; Doctor Roberts’ breath stank. Why hadn’t he realised? Why did others always have to point these things out to him?
Tom grinned, rubbing a hand over his stubbly chin. ‘So, who’s going to write the letter then?’
Alf’s stomach churned. He stared down at the gristly pork on his plate. So what if Doctor Roberts’ breath stank? It didn’t prove a thing—apart from Tom Griggs’ meddling, suspicious mind. Besides, he was surgeon superintendent. He could pilfer the entire wine ration if he wanted. Alf wasn’t about to question him.
‘Count me out. I want nothing to do with it.’
Tom fixed his yellowing smile on Rhys. ‘What about you, Welshman? Is your pen as silvery as your tongue?’
‘No! Please Tom. I promised to keep an eye on things.’
‘Well, bully for you.’
‘Why not write it yourself?’ It was unkind. Alf knew the question was unkind. But he was sick of being pushed around by Tom Griggs.
‘I don’t have a good hand.’
‘Practise makes perfect, Tom. Or have you tried already? Found you couldn’t get on with it? Is that why you didn’t attend Reverend Cummings’ school? Because you’re too proud to admit your weakness?’
‘At least I don’t bow and scrape like other people on this ship.’
‘I’ve got priorities and I’m working towards them. If that means bowing and scraping, I’ll do it. Damned if I’ll let you, or anyone else, spoil my chances.’
‘Hah! By the time you’ve worked up the guts to ask Doctor Roberts, I’ll have a hundred signatures.’
‘You’ll have the signatures. But no letter.’
‘No, that’s where you’re wrong. Young silver tongue here’s going to write it for me.’
Alf shook his head. ‘I stood up for him this morning. He owes me a favour.’
‘I owe you an apology,’ Rhys’s soft voice interrupted. ‘Honesty and fairness must bring their own rewards.’
‘See, Alf! He’s not as lily-livered as you think.’
Alf swivelled round. ‘No, please, son, don’t do this. I’ll have to go to Doctor Roberts, don’t you see? He’ll make trouble. You know that, don’t you? You’ve had dealings with him in the past.’
‘Yes, Mr Bustle. I’ve had dealings. Which is why I don’t trust him. But I’ll not see you shamed, or jeopardise your position. I’ll write Tom’s letter on one condition—that he hand it over to you once he’s collected the signatures. That way, you can decide whether to approach Doctor Roberts, or take the matter straight to the captain.’
Chapter 15
Bridie didn’t wait for Rhys and Alf to finish their dinner. She barely made it through her pudding. So much trouble, confusion, the still-now sorrow of last night’s story. She shoved her bowl to the centre of the table and made a dash for the hatchway ladder.
Siân sat in her usual place at the base of the main mast, her eyes darkly shadowed. But she held her back straight, as if determined to face the afternoon squarely. Bridie felt no such compulsion. She had no desire to talk to Rhys, or work on her stories. She certainly didn’t want to see with different eyes. Her own were quite enough. Her vision suddenly altered.
She sank down beside the quarterdeck stairs, her mind a roil of memory and emotion. Was it shock? Or disappointment? She had to admit last night’s story frightened her. One minute, Rhys had been talking to Tom Griggs; next, he’d been stoking the fire of people’s fury. He’d regretted his actions almost at once. She’d seen that, and it was hardly surprising. There had been no magic in last night’s story, or life lessons, only a terrible dredging up of memory, along with the cloying heat of steerage. Rhys had been affected too. She’d seen the tremor of his limbs, Siân’s hand snaking out to save him and, now, this terrible tension, much worse than after Lucy’s accident.
‘A dream has ended,
The fire has burned,
A young wife lonely,
A child must mourn.’
Even now, Siân’s words brought a wedge of sorrow to Bridie’s throat. They might have been her own words, written to her own life’s melody, a song for her even-now stubborn ache of grief. Although, her dad had been no martyr. Only a handful of theatre friends had turned out for his passing. Yet today, for some reason, she saw i
t all clearly, as if through the window of a peep box—the song, the sorrow, last night’s story, bringing each tiny image into focus. She remembered anger and raised voices, the long fear-filled night of waiting, Alf organising a party to search the Boxing Day streets. He’d run ahead, when the men had found her dad, and helped with the medical expenses. But, by then it was too late. Ma’s face was a plaster cast of fury.
Bridie had done her best—raising his head, spooning broth into his mouth, heating bricks and laying them at his feet. But Ma wanted nothing to do with him. She remembered Alf laying a hand on Ma’s shoulder, the grateful quiver of her lips, Ma’s fingers curling around his. Bridie moaned, pressing her hands to her face. Had she known? Or had she only just realised? For this changed everything. Mr trying-so-hard Alf didn’t look so good now, or his boxes of market greens. As for Ma—it was worse, so much worse, than she’d imagined. For not only had Bridie’s dad given up on life, but Ma had given up on him. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, she’d also loved another man in place of him.
At supper time, Thaddy, one of the little Irish boys, wouldn’t stop crying. His high thin wails threaded a needle up Bridie’s spine. Slumped at the table, she jammed her fingers in her ears, her own misery enough without Thaddy’s competing woes.
‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ Ma snapped. ‘Have some pity. The poor little mite is probably sickening.’
Pity! Since when had Ma shown pity? Not Christmas night when Bridie’s dad given her the notebook, or later on when he lay dying. But as she glanced along the deck, the angry words died on Bridie’s lips. Hunched over Thaddy, his ma’s anguished face was a pitiful sight.
By lights out, Thaddy’s sister Maeve had started to whimper, along with the rabbit-toothed Hilary, whose head was pounding.
‘Dim the lamps,’ Hilary moaned, clutching her temples. ‘Sweet Jesus. It’s like someone’s put a nail in me head.’
Dimming lights didn’t help. Hilary moaned, Maeve and Thaddy wailed. In the fierce, unforgiving heat of the tropics, the blackened deck sounded like a scene from Hell. Bridie woke the following morning to a smell of fresh, ripe vomit and the news that five others had joined the list of sufferers.
‘It’s like the smallpox,’ Annie whispered, white-faced, as they set the table.
Bridie shivered, peering along the deck. ‘Why? Has someone got spots?’
‘No, but this is how it started, with one person, then another. Until everyone in our lodging house was sick. Then people started dying.’
At breakfast, no one spoke, or ate. Bridie’s hands shook as she scraped bowls of cold grey porridge into the waiting slop-bins. She didn’t grab her notebook once mess duties were finished, or head for her spot on the main deck. She sat as if chained to the bench. When the bells rang for surgery, she trooped up the ladder and joined the whispering knot gathered at the dispensary.
‘Good God. This is not a circus.’ Doctor Roberts gave an impatient flick of his hand. ‘Be off, all of you. Go about your business.’
No one moved, apart from Thaddy’s ma. She knelt, laying Thaddy on the deck. He whimpered, unable to raise his head. His calico shirt plastered to his ribs, his tiny body bathed in a feverish sweat. How old was he? Three? Four? About Billy’s age. He still had the little-boy roundness to his cheeks.
Doctor Roberts raised a white lace handkerchief to his nose. His gaze darted over the heads of the crowd.
‘Miss Bowles, where are you? Ah, there you are. Unbutton his shirt, please.’
‘No. Wait!’ Bridie grabbed Annie’s arm. ‘You might get sick.’
Silence. Doctor Roberts’ flinty eyes. He lowered his hanky. Bridie wished a star trap would open up and let her plunge from his sight. But, no, if this was a serious illness, like the smallpox, then Annie could indeed sicken.
‘She’s right.’ Bridie heard Alf’s stiff apologetic tones from behind. ‘Annie mustn’t touch him.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. The girl’s my assistant.’
‘Yes, I know that, sir. And I’d not like to spoil her chances. Especially now you’re organising a gratuity.’
‘Gratuity!’ Doctor Roberts blinked. Clearly this was news to him, though Alf was too agitated to notice.
‘Annie’s in my care, sir. I promised her aunt I’d see her safe. And there was no great risk, lancing boils and checking heads for lice but, if this is an epidemic—’
‘Epidemic! Who says this is an epidemic?’
‘No one, sir. I just thought—’
‘The last thing we need is panic.’ Doctor Roberts turned, forcing a smile, and addressed the crowd. ‘You must rest. Do you hear me? Eat well, attend your lessons, sing hymns of an evening. Nothing undermines the health so much as fretting.’
‘It’s all right for him,’ someone muttered. ‘He’s nowt to lose but his gratuity.’
‘He could sicken. Look how he holds the cloth to his nose.’
‘Him! Not likely! He ain’t cooped up like a beast in steerage.’
All around Bridie, people murmured their agreement. Doctor Roberts’ face flushed scarlet. Was he hot, in his fancy frock coat? Or shamed by the lies he’d just told? For this could well be an epidemic. It was spreading so fast. That’s how epidemics started, Annie said; first in one family, then in another. Until people started dying.
‘I suggest you leave the thinking to me in future, Bustle. You are quite out of your depth on medical matters. Meanwhile, where’s that girl? Miss Bowles! Unbutton his shirt please.’
Annie stepped forward, her eyes soft with concern. Alf stepped forward, grasping her shoulder.
‘No. She mustn’t get involved.’
‘Good God, Bustle. Are you determined to thwart me?’
‘Please,’ Thaddy’s mum interrupted. ‘Can someone help my boy?’
‘I intend to, madam, once this nuisance stops interfering.’
‘No,’ Alf stammered, ‘not interfering. I respect your position, Doctor Roberts, and your knowledge. But I’m Annie’s guardian. I’d never forgive myself if she got sick. I’ll take her place at the dispensary.’
‘What about the cleaning? That’s how these things start, you know, with poor hygiene. It’s possible you’ve overlooked something.’
Alf drew himself up to full height.
‘If I have, I’m not aware of it. But if you’d like to carry out an inspection, Doctor Roberts, I’m happy to take your advice.’
‘Oh, very well. If you must play the martyr, take the girl’s place. But don’t blame me if you succumb to this illness.’
Alf? Sick! No, Bridie gasped at the notion; he was solid as a brick. He hadn’t coughed during the long winter months while he was stealing Ma’s affection. Or vomited like everyone else at the beginning of their journey. But if this was an epidemic, like the smallpox, and it was serious enough for Doctor Roberts to lie about the situation, then even Alf was at risk.
Three days later, Thaddy started to tremble. When Alf pulled his shirt up during surgery there was a deep purple rash leaching beneath his skin. The word typhus was spoken in hushed tones. Thaddy’s body barely made a splash when it hit the water, only flashed white in the morning light before being swallowed up by the sea. Within hours, his sister Maeve joined him in a watery grave.
Steerage filled with a high, keening wail.
‘Dear God, what’s to become of us?’ Ma’s hands curled shell-like around her belly.
‘If only we knew what caused it.’ Alf shook his head. ‘If only we knew what we were fighting against. I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to you or Bridie.’
Hilary, who’d fancied Mr Rolf, died later that evening. Next morning Eunice, who’d dreamed of marrying a squatter, joined her in the deep. Terror tightened like a nutcracker around Bridie’s breastbone—the same hard, pinching terror she’d felt that long, fear-filled night in December. What if Alf did get sick? Then Ma might catch it, or Rhys and Siân, or even Annie. What if his ship became their coffin? There would be no new baby then. No new life. She
would never get to grow up, or choose a husband. Let alone make the most of her opportunities in the colony.
Thaddy’s ma sickened next, followed by three Scottish brothers who were berthed at the single men’s end of the deck. An eerie silence followed this fresh outbreak of illness. No one complained about airing their bedding now, or sweeping the baseboards of their bunks. Bridie scoured their plates after each meal and helped Alf scrub their narrow section of the long table. In between, she lathered her hands and face in the basin on the deck. Though no one knew if these measures were helping. Or who would sicken next. It was like a man with a scythe walked the deck, cutting down his victims at random.
Doctor Roberts suspended the deck school. Cabin passengers were ordered to stay in the saloon. Reverend Cummings read burial services from the safety of the quarter deck. But in steerage there was no escape.
No way to separate the well from the sick.
As they neared the equator, strange fish took flight. Shimmering phosphorescent seas conjured up images of Neptune’s kingdom beneath the waves. But Bridie didn’t saunter in the night air marvelling at these wonders, or even try to work on her stories. Maps, voyage logs and recent arguments were forgotten. When Alf sank onto the bench of an evening, Tom Griggs didn’t even try to badger him. Only the sailors seemed unaffected by the illness. As Lady Sophia inched her way towards the equator, they began to prepare for their traditional Crossing the Line ceremony.
‘It’s not right,’ people muttered. ‘People are dying.’
Mr Burns and a group of married men approached Doctor Roberts. ‘It’s not respectful, sir, to go ahead with this mummery.’
‘Ordinarily, I would agree with you, Mr Burns.’
‘Then why not put a stop to it?’
‘The sailors set a great store by these heathenish practices. It’s a rite, to them, a form of initiation. If we do not seek Neptune’s permission to cross the equator, they fear it will bring bad luck down upon the ship.’
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