The Tides Between

by Elizabeth Jane Corbett

  Blessings on the clear shinning stone!

  Bendith ar y dŵr clir a fur!

  Blessings on the clear pure water!

  Iechyd i bob salwch corff

  A healing of all bodily ills

  Dyn ac anifail!

  On man and beast alike!’

  Bridie didn’t need Siân’s translation. The sound was enough. Sweet and pure, her words were like incense pervading the deck. Once poured, she transferred the water to a cup and passed it to Pam. Billy gagged, his tongue thick and heavily coated. But Pam wouldn’t let him spill it, not a drop.

  ‘Here, Billy boy, it’s a special drink. Siân made it with her magic stone. Like the charm she wanted to do for Lucy’s burn. She didn’t finish that time, remember? Rhys made her stop. But it was magic all the same.’ Pam paused, her eyes willing Billy to show signs of life. ‘This water’s magic too. It’s going to help you fight the fever and make the headache go away.’

  Once Pam had finished, Siân refilled the cup and walked along the deck, offering it to others. It was a simple gesture, a sacrament of sorts, as one by one frightened relatives foisted water on those they loved.

  They stood round Billy, waiting for something to happen—a lightening of his symptoms, relief in the lines of his face. Nothing came. As Billy lay in a stupor of sweat, their hopes began to fade. Only it was worse now, much worse. They had exhausted all their options. There was nothing anyone could do but wait through the remainder of the day and, if they were lucky, into the long, dark hours of the night, with only the bells for solace.

  Chapter 16

  Billy’s recovery wasn’t rapid. For days, he lay on his own personal equator, drifting neither to the north or the south. But he didn’t get hiccups like the ones who’d died. And he continued to pass fluids. These were good signs, Doctor Roberts told Alf. They proved he was destined for life.

  Alf knew Billy’s healing wasn’t magic. Yet the crystal water marked a turning point in the epidemic. As they headed towards the milder Cape climate, the sea rolled and swelled like a proud man’s chest. The wind bore them valiantly across the waves. With strong south-easterlies and no fresh outbreaks of typhus, Doctor Roberts was confident they’d left death behind. Though he wasn’t taking any chances. They would sail into Table Bay under a yellow quarantine flag.

  The mood in steerage remained low. People sang hymns of an evening. In the morning, they trooped up the ladder to hear prayers read out from the quarterdeck. No need for a flag to remind them; they were living like cattle in a shed. Each sneeze brought a flare of white to people’s eyes, the mere hint of fever a sickening dread.

  The only one unaffected by the sombre mood was Tom Griggs. As Billy recovered, he bounced back like a hideous piece of Indian rubber. Never mind people’s fear or the fug of sorrow hanging over steerage. He turned his thoughts to their missing wine rations and started badgering people for signatures.

  ‘It’s callous, Tom. Can’t you see people are grieving?’

  ‘We’ve faced death and won, Alf. We oughta be celebrating.’

  ‘Not everyone has cause to celebrate.’

  ‘I know that. Gawd, why do you think I’m persisting? If I’d lost me wife and child, I wouldn’t wanna be sober of an evening.’

  Rhys took his time writing the letter, for which Alf was grateful. But once the ink had dried, Tom laid the petition before him.

  ‘There it is, Alf, with fair warning. If you don’t raise the matter with Doctor Roberts, I’ll take this letter straight to the captain.’

  Next morning, Alf stood in the dispensary queue with his mouth dry and his palms sweating. Lord, why was he getting so worked up? Because he’d known about the letter for ages, and should have raised the matter long before this. No matter how he justified his inaction, Doctor Roberts was going to be furious.

  Alf wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers as Pam Griggs stepped up to the dispensary.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Griggs. How’s your lad coming along?’

  Pam nudged Billy forwards. The little boy wasn’t a pretty sight. A mask of skin and bone had replaced his baby face. But his skin was warm, thank God, his bones coming back to life.

  ‘I’m nursing him like you said, Doctor Roberts, giving him plenty of reasons to live.’

  ‘Well done. I’m sure it’s making a difference.’

  ‘That and the crystal water.’

  ‘Yes, well, as I’ve explained, Mrs Griggs, typhus isn’t always a death sentence. Sometimes it’s simply a matter of letting the illness run its course.’

  ‘I’m sure you meant well, and we don’t hold it against you, Doctor Roberts. But our Billy would have died if not for Siân’s magic stone.’

  Doctor Roberts’ lips thinned. For a moment, Alf thought he might argue the point. But he turned round with a twitch of his shoulders, and started to stopper the jars in his cupboard. As Pam slipped away, Alf stepped forward.

  ‘Ah, Bustle. How are things below?’

  Alf swallowed, licking his lips. ‘Well, to be honest, sir, I’m a tad concerned.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, with all the mumbo jumbo flying about. Honestly, I’m going to throttle the next person who mentions magic stones during surgery.’

  Alf didn’t know what to say. He agreed with Doctor Roberts, of course. Siân’s stone wasn’t magic, only a foolish ritual. Yet, for all its foolishness it had brought hope—a hope that for all his lecturing Doctor Roberts had failed to provide.

  ‘We need a diversion, Bustle. Something to take people’s minds off death for a while.’

  ‘I quite agree.’

  ‘I’m glad, sir, because—’

  ‘People are weak and feeble minded. Yes, but we must make allowances. Working people need levity to ease their drudgery. That’s why I have a concert in mind.’

  A concert! Did the man have any idea? Of their grief, the daily hardship of life between decks? Alf shifted, dropping his gaze. ‘You may be right about the concert, sir. I’m not saying it isn’t a good idea. But, if you’ll pardon me for speaking freely, people might not be ready and, well … it is rather … cramped between decks.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting a three-ringed extravaganza, Bustle.’

  ‘No, sir, I understand, but—’

  ‘There are no buts about it. I’ve heard you all singing of an evening.’

  ‘Hymns, sir, for comfort.’

  ‘Then why not carols? We’ll make it a Christmas concert.’

  ‘Yes, carols are a good idea, though it may feel a little strange with the sun shining overhead. However, before that, in preparation, perhaps we might start with something a little less drastic … you know, to raise people’s spirits?’

  ‘Less drastic?’ Doctor Roberts peered down the long thin line of his nose.

  ‘Yes. Like issuing our wine rations.’

  ‘Rations! I’m proposing a concert to raise people’s spirits and you are quibbling about wine rations.’

  ‘It may seem unimportant to you, sir, but—’

  ‘Enough!’ Doctor Roberts raised a gloved hand. ‘I’ll not hear another word on the subject.’

  Alf sighed, bracing himself for the onslaught. ‘I’m sorry, Doctor Roberts, I’m loath to persist but, well, it’s only … there’s a letter.’

  ‘A letter?’

  ‘Yes … everyone’s signed it.’

  ‘A letter! With signatures! Dear God, why didn’t you say so earlier?’

  ‘I’ve been trying, Doctor Roberts.’

  ‘A petition.’ The surgeon’s eyes narrowed. ‘So much for sadness and grieving. Whose idea was it? I want names, Bustle. The ring leaders.’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘Oh, you’d rather not say. That’s very noble of you. Is it the Welsh lad? Our regular troublemaker? He’s rather good friends with your daughter, I’ve noticed.’

  ‘He’s not the instigator.’

  ‘I’d never have picked you for a rebel, Bustle, or a turncoat. But this sheds a different light on th
e matter.’

  ‘I’m not involved, Doctor Roberts. You have my word on that score. I may have acted too slowly, in hopes that things would blow over. But I’ve come to you now and given you fair warning. If you don’t issue our wine rations, the letter will go straight to Captain Thompson.’

  That night, steerage received its first ration of wine. From Tom Griggs’ crow of triumph, anyone would think he was solely responsible. Not Rhys, who’d written the letter. Or Alf who had faced Doctor Roberts’ ire. In the end, he’d volunteered to organise the Christmas concert in order to placate him. Dear God, what a muggins, doing other people’s dirty work. Then again, what was organising a small concert, against Doctor Roberts’ backing in the colony?

  Alf wasn’t a man for grand announcements, despite Doctor Roberts’ expectations. He had no intention of shouting the news across the deck, not with Tom Griggs in such fine fettle. He only had to mention the concert and, like a foghorn, Tom would blare the news into the night.

  ‘Your singing sounded good this evening, Tom.’

  ‘Thanks, Alf. I rather like the sound of me own voice.’

  That was an understatement. Across the table, Rhys gave the ghost of a smile. It was a rare sight. The crystal water may have brought healing to some. But it hadn’t helped Rhys. He sat beside Siân in his usual white-faced silence, but things weren’t right between the Welsh couple—they were cautious as a set of scales.

  ‘Did you sing hymns in London, Tom?’

  ‘Gawd, no! I ain’t been near a church since me great-aunt Mabel died.’

  ‘You never sang in a public?’

  ‘Never, unless you count me union hymn.’ Tom tilted his head back and sang out loud:

  ‘God is our guide! From field from wave,

  From plough, from anvil, and from loom.’

  A stirring sound, it echoed the length and breadth of steerage as others linked arms and joined him.

  ‘We come our country’s rights to save,

  And speak a tyrant faction’s doom.

  We raise the watchword liberty,

  We will, we will, we will, be free!’

  It wasn’t what Alf had in mind but it confirmed his strategy. ‘Never mind, you’ll have your chance at the Christmas concert.’

  Tom’s silence was a direct contrast to the defiant mood his song had provoked. ‘All right, you’ve got me attention, Alf. What’s this about a concert?’

  Tom wasn’t the only one interested. Like Chinese whispers, the idea began to work its way along the deck.

  ‘It’s Doctor Roberts’ idea. He thought it might lift our spirits. He understands some of us might not be ready.’ Alf nodded to one or two whose children had died. ‘But for the rest of us, it may prove a distraction.’ He swivelled back round. ‘What about you, Tom? Will you be giving us an item?’

  ‘Not on your life. I’d be dead shy.’

  Shy! Alf couldn’t believe his ears. It was unthinkable to put the words shy and Tom Griggs in the same sentence. ‘Go on. It’s like your union song.’

  ‘No, it ain’t.’

  ‘People hear your voice.’

  ‘Yes. But it’s not a performance. We’re supporting the cause.’

  Alf shook his head. Tom was right; of course, people marched and sang to protest against their working conditions, not to draw attention to themselves. ‘But … you like singing?’

  ‘Not on me own. But … I’ve always wanted to sing in a choir.’

  ‘A choir? You’d need a conductor to start a choir.’

  ‘Well, I know that, Alf.’

  ‘We haven’t got one, unless … Reverend Cummings.’ Alf paused, aware of the trap he was falling into. ‘Reverend Cummings might be able to help out. Why don’t you ask him, Tom?’

  ‘That’s not a bad idea.’ Tom’s smile widened. ‘But I won’t be asking Reverend Cummings anything.’

  ‘Well, I’m not asking.’

  ‘You don’t have to, Alf. Not this time.’

  Alf eyed him warily. A trick. It must be a trick. He sat waiting for a rabbit to pop out of Tom’s battered cloth cap. To his surprise, the other man turned his yellowing smile on Rhys.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to help out, son?’

  Rhys’s smile flickered. ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself, Tom?’

  ‘Not ask, son, conduct.’

  Rhys blanched, shaking his head, as if the question pained him. ‘My … my father conducted a choir.’

  ‘There you are. You’ll do him proud.’

  Rhys didn’t look heartened by this comment. He looked rather like he was going to throw up. Alf wasn’t surprised. It was hard enough standing up to Tom Griggs at the best of times. Let alone when, by his own admission, he’d always wanted to sing in a choir.

  ‘Perhaps Rhys needs time to think.’

  ‘Go on. What’s there to think about?’

  Tom Griggs had the sensitivity of a sledgehammer. Alf knew what it was like to fall under his blows and, something told him, there was more to Rhys’s caution than met the eye. What had he said about his father that day in steerage? I know what it’s like not to measure up.

  The deck fell silent. Everyone waited. Not only their mess. Others had gathered in small murmuring knots. Rhys glanced sideways, his eyes seeking Siân’s. She grasped his hand, waited.

  After what seemed like an age, Rhys nodded. ‘All right, I’ll give it a try.’

  Shouts followed Rhys’s announcement, back slaps all round. Alf stood, waiting for the excitement to die down. He’d carried out Doctor Roberts’ instructions, let Tom Griggs announce the concert, and avoided organising the choir. This was indeed a night for celebration.

  ‘A toast!’ he said, raising his cup. ‘To the steerage choir.’

  Chapter 17

  As days lengthened into weeks, with no fresh outbreaks of typhus, the ship seemed to heave a great sigh. Diaries, letter books, and sewing projects were pulled out. People fell back into the steady rhythm of bells, deck lessons, and mess duties. Steerage buzzed with plans and preparations for the concert.

  The choir would take part of course. Rhys was working on a version of the Fairy Woman’s tale set to the haunting strains of ‘Ar Hyd y Nos’. Some of the single girls were planning to recite verse, while groups of single men had decided to try their hand at playwriting. Time would tell whether they had any talent in this department. But hoots of laughter from the forward part of the deck told Bridie they considered themselves great wits. Only the families who’d lost loved ones kept themselves apart. As Lady Sophia approached Table Bay, Bridie fancied she heard their grief echoed in the mournful cry of the Cape Pigeons.

  Rhys and Siân were slow to restart their story sessions. The typhus seemed to have worsened the tension between them. Bridie heard hissing after lights out, Siân’s soft weeping. She knew without being told they argued about Billy’s healing. But why? The stone had helped, hadn’t it? Brought an end to the epidemic? Yet, she heard pressed steel in Rhys’s night time voice. The word sori being demanded. From Siân’s emphatic nage, she gathered the Welsh girl felt no need to apologise.

  Bridie wasn’t worried by the delay. The typhus had set her own thoughts churning. Over and over, she found herself reliving that final Christmas night, seeing the strange mix of anger and hurt in her dad’s eyes, a wind stirring the ash in the fireplace, hearing the stab of Ma’s final words:

  Don’t come back. We’re better off without you.

  Had he thought of her, when he staggered through the streets that night? Or had Ma’s treachery already drowned out love’s voice? Did he fall? Or simply lay down in the snow? And how was that different from actually killing himself? What about later on, when Bridie chaffed and spooned and begged him to stay alive? Did he hear her voice? Or even try to get well? Or was it too late, by then, matter how hard he tried? Was he simply too sick to fight?

  She couldn’t answer these questions. Neither could she ignore them. They hissed and coiled like a snake in her head. But the typhus had gi
ven her a chance to school her face. By the time Siân once again beckoned from the base of the main mast, she had her mask firmly in place.

  Rhys looked pale and drawn, Bridie noticed, even worse than before the typhus, his hands a knot of anguish. But he managed a wan smile as she sank down beside him.

  ‘Siân says we owe you an apology, Bridie Stewart.’

  Her? An apology! ‘It’s fine. You’ve had things to discuss. I understand.’

  Rhys’s brows rose. ‘Discuss! Is that what you’d call it? No doubt we’ve kept you awake with our squabbling.’

  ‘Not much,’ Bridie lied. ‘We’ve all been upset since the typhus.’

  Rhys smiled. ‘You’re a good friend, Bridie Stewart, and sorry I am to have ignored you for so long. What do you say? Shall we resume our story sessions?’

  Bridie shrugged, not quite meeting his gaze. ‘I’d like that. But only if you’re ready.’

  Rhys swallowed, glancing sideways at Siân. ‘Will we ever be ready? I’m not sure anymore, about anything. But I suspect Siân is right. There is nothing to be gained from arguing.’

  Once their stories resumed, Bridie’s days once again throbbed with purpose. She settled back into a pattern of hearing, drafting and redrafting. To her relief, she found Rhys’s stories less intense than before the epidemic, as if he’d sensed a shift in her emotions. Though, more than once, she glanced up to find his dark gaze fixed on her, as if trying to gauge the weight of her burdens.

  One morning, about three weeks after crossing the equator, Bridie woke to an ache in her tummy and a strange absence of sound. She winced, rolling over, no flap of canvas, no lines clanking against the mast. The deck seemed flatter somehow, not tilted, and there were voices, from beyond, not overhead. She heard a lapping against the sides of their vessel; a rhythmic splash that could have been anything; high, shrill laughter that made her think of a market … or a town.

  A town! She jerked up, cracking her head on the overhead beam.

  ‘Yes, exciting, isn’t it?’ Annie smiled in the bed beside her. ‘We’re in Cape Town. We arrived about an hour ago. I heard them run out the anchor chains. But you were sleeping like a babe.’