The Tides Between

by Elizabeth Jane Corbett

  ‘It doesn’t smell any better.’ Bridie wrinkled her nose at the stale, overnight odour of bad breath and ripening privies.

  ‘Not down here. I expect it will on deck.’

  As if on signal, Bridie heard the clang of six bells. They were louder without the trinity of wind, waves, and canvas. Their measured chime shattered the stillness of early morning. She heard groans from the bunks around her, a breaking of wind, saw capped heads pop up over the surrounding partitions.

  ‘In port!’ Someone gave a crow of delight.

  ‘Either that, or we’re back in the doldrums.’

  ‘Nah, don’t be daft. There’s singing. Listen!’

  Bridie raised her head, trying to catch the snatch of song drifting in through the scuttles. It was in a different language, the sound altogether foreign. It brought to mind the clatter of the Sunday School collection box, stories of brown-skinned girls who lived in mud huts and balanced earthenware pots on their heads.

  Bridie moaned, biting down on her lip as she drew back the covers. The pain in her tummy was worse this morning, jagged, as if someone had snipped at her insides with pinking irons. She hadn’t mentioned the pain to Ma, fearing the Spanish inquisition. But she’d noticed things were slippery last night when she’d gone to the privy.

  She sat up, shrugged out of her nightgown and clasped a blanket to her chest. Her skirts, bodice and petticoats had slipped from their pegs. She crawled to the bed-end, rummaged amid the tangle of blankets and turned her bodice the right way out. She slipped into it, tugging at the laces, reached for her petticoats. A gasp, she saw Annie’s hand fly to her mouth.

  ‘What’s wrong? Did you bang your head, Annie?’

  ‘No. It’s just … well, you’ve got a stain on your shift.’

  ‘A stain?’ Bridie twisted, craning her neck. ‘What sort of stain?’

  ‘Turn round. Let me have a look.’

  Bridie did as requested. Peering back over her shoulder, she saw Annie bite down on her lip.

  ‘What’s wrong? Tell me?’

  ‘Well, it’s not bad. At least, it’s nothing serious.’ Annie leaned forward, lowering her voice. ‘I think you might have started your monthlies.’

  Monthlies!

  No. It wasn’t possible, not here, on board ship. Bridie reached round, her fingers finding a wet patch on her shift. She clawed at the fabric, dragged it into view. Sure enough, there was a stain, about the size of a soupspoon. It looked an awful lot like blood. No, it was blood. She smelled the coppery tang on her fingers.

  ‘Please, don’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Your ma will guess.’

  Bridie flopped onto the bed and dragged the covers up to her chin. ‘I’ll pretend I’m sick.’

  ‘She won’t believe you. Besides, you’re on mess duties.’

  ‘Please, Annie, cover for me?’

  Annie shook her head. ‘It’s not a disaster. No doubt your ma’s expecting it. Your bodice is getting that tight. Surely you’ve noticed?’

  Bridie whimpered, pulling the blankets over her head. Balling her shift, she tried to staunch the bleeding between her legs. Why? Why was this happening? She didn’t want to get her monthlies, or to be a woman. She certainly wasn’t ready for rags and pins. At least not here, in steerage, with hundreds of eager ears listening in.

  Bridie focused her racing thoughts on the familiar sounds of morning—a rattle of plates, the clank of spoons being laid out along the table, thuds as people jumped down from their bunks.

  ‘Morning, Tom. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. Slept like a top.’

  It sounded so normal, so business as usual. At least the morning had remembered its script. She heard a distant cry of ‘hot water!’, followed by Ma’s sharp, no-nonsense tones.

  ‘Bridie! Get up, please. You’re on mess duties.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs Bustle. I’ll do Bridie’s chores this morning.’

  ‘She’s not a baby, Annie. She needs to take responsibility. Come on, Bridie.’ Ma grasped her ankle. ‘I’ll not have a lazybones in the family.’

  ‘No, please, Mrs Bustle. She’s poorly.’

  ‘Poorly!’ Ma’s voice took on a note of alarm. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing serious. Truly.’

  ‘No headache? What about a rash? Maybe Alf should climb up and check?’

  ‘No!’ Bridie jerked up, cracking her head for the second time that morning. She winced, rubbing at the sore spot with the heel of her hand. ‘Please, Ma. I’m fine.’

  ‘Then I suggest you get up, young lady.’

  ‘No. I can’t.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  Silence. Bridie glanced sideways, saw heads cocked, spoons raised, hundreds of big pink ears flapping. Tears welled. ‘I’ve got a … tummy ache.’

  ‘A tummy ache.’ Ma’s eyes narrowed. ‘What kind of tummy ache?’

  Bridie shrugged, heat creeping her cheeks. ‘You know, the usual sort that girls get. Annie says you’re expecting it.’

  ‘Ah.’ Ma gave a quick sideways glance. ‘You’d better rest then, love.’

  Bridie heard Ma’s feet shuffling on the bench, a murmur as she hissed the words ‘tummy ache’ to their mess, imagined nudges and knowing winks as the news worked its way along the deck.

  ‘Fresh bread!’ She heard a whoop. ‘Lord, can you smell it! And butter while we’re in port.’

  Bridie’s stomach rumbled at the warm yeasty scent.

  In the horror of the morning’s discovery, she’d forgotten the promise of such luxuries. They’d have fresh meat delivered to the ship for dinner, and potatoes. Meanwhile, she’d be sitting on the bench, with a marquee of rags and pins beneath her skirts, trying not to meet an eye or act differently, while everyone on board knew she was a woman now, at fifteen-going-on-sixteen years of age, ready to marry and have babies.

  ‘Right, madam. Let’s have a look at you.’

  Ma stepped onto the bench.

  Raising her head, Bridie eased back the covers and peered along the deck. Only Alf and a handful of cleaners remained in steerage, all with their eyes trained on the forward part of the ship.

  ‘I can’t get down. I’ve got a stain on my shift.’

  ‘No one’s looking. Alf’s explained the need for privacy.’

  Bridie’s cheeks flamed at the thought of Alf’s stuttering, red-faced explanations. But there was no help for it. She couldn’t stay in bed forever. She shoved her feet into her boots, wrapped a blanket round her waist, grabbed a clean shift, and shuffled along the deck. Ma followed, carrying a lumpy drawstring bag and a ball of twill tape.

  Bridie held her breath as she squeezed into the privy cubicle and slammed down the lid. She stepped towards Ma, letting the blanket fall to the ground. Ma nodded, tutting at the stain on her shift.

  ‘That’ll be a job to scrub out. But there’s no help for it, what’s done is done.’

  Ma opened her arms, ran the tape around Bridie’s waist, and cut it to length. She tied a knot, pulled it tight with her teeth and drew a long, thick wad of fabric from the bag on her wrist.

  Bridie’s mouth fell open. She knew what it was. She’d seen monthly pads often enough. But this one seemed to have grown like a turnip over the months at sea. ‘I can’t wear that, Ma. It’s like a baby’s clout.’

  ‘Never mind the size, Bridie. It’ll save your shifts. We’ll need extra pads, now you’ve started your monthlies. Nothing permanent, seeing as we have to toss them overboard. Once we’re in Port Phillip you can make yourself a regular set.’

  Bridie shuddered, her mind filling with a gloomy image of herself stitching monthly pads in the glow of a rush light while, outside, a line of big dull men stood waiting to claim her hand in marriage.

  ‘You needn’t look so long-faced. Even the queen gets her monthlies.’

  The queen!

  What did the queen have to do with it? She hadn’t started her monthlies in the steerage deck of an emigrant vessel. Or had t
o sit beside her mother making regular sets. Bridie blinked, pressing her lips together, determined not to weep. The tight, no-nonsense set of Ma’s mouth told her there would be precious little sympathy.

  Ma showed her how to pin the pad to one end of the tape, twist it round to the back, and draw it up between her legs. Slipping out of her shift, Bridie folded it around the tell-tale stain and shrugged into a clean one. It felt stiff and scratchy from its salt-water washing. Bridie held the soiled shift out to Ma.

  ‘You’re a woman now. You can start by washing your own linen.’

  Bridie nodded, eyes on the deck. This sounded ominous, like the beginning of a lecture.

  ‘You’ll need to be careful from now on. Having your monthlies means you can fall pregnant. You know about that, I presume?’

  ‘Yes, Ma. You’ve told me already.’

  ‘Good, bear it in mind. One day, you’ll meet a handsome young man and, although you probably can’t imagine it this morning, it will be difficult to resist his advances.’

  ‘Yes, Ma. Can I go now, please?’

  ‘No, Bridie. This is important. You’re lucky to have a mother to tell you these things. My own ma died before I got my monthlies. I had no one to stop me making foolish choices. I want better for you.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But can we talk about this another time?’

  ‘There’s no time like the present, especially with the deck half empty. You’ll begin to feel desire, Bridie, long before you marry.’

  ‘Please, Ma. I don’t want to talk about this. It’s embarrassing.’

  ‘Nothing to be ashamed of, it’s all part of the process. Once you find the right man, someone strong and reliable, you’ll no doubt find it quite pleasant to lie beneath the blankets and … let him touch you privately.’

  Urgh! Bridie couldn’t think of anything worse than a big dull man fiddling with her private parts. ‘I’m only fifteen. Alf says there’s no hurry.’

  Ma’s brows arched. ‘Alf! That’s the first time you’ve heeded his good advice.’

  ‘Well, it’s true, isn’t it? I don’t need to talk about these things. I’m not ready. So, there’s no danger.’

  ‘No danger? Really! You could have fooled me.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s not seemly is it? Spending so much time with a married man, and all under the pretext of those ridiculous stories. It’ll have to stop now you’ve got your monthlies. Don’t you see? Siân won’t want another woman making eyes at her husband.’

  Rhys! Did she mean Rhys? What did this have to do with him? ‘Rhys is my friend. Siân knows that. I’ve never made eyes at him.’

  ‘Really? That’s not what I see.’

  ‘Well, you’d know, I suppose.’

  ‘Me! I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘You do!’ Anger surged. ‘You know exactly what I mean. You and Alf were making eyes at each other long before my dad died.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Ma’s face paled.

  ‘That’s why he gave up, isn’t it? Maybe even killed himself. Because you stopped loving him.’

  ‘Your dad gave up because he was weak and fanciful, like your friend Rhys.’

  ‘No!’ Bridie backed away. ‘You can say what you like, Ma. But I loved my dad, right to the end, even if he didn’t love me. But you wouldn’t understand that, would you? Because you hated him. Well, not everyone is like you. Some people keep faith with the ones they love. Rhys and Siân love each other like that. And I’m not going to let you spoil our friendship.’

  The deck school had already started by the time Bridie clambered out from beneath the canvas awning. Bridie saw Rhys and Siân amid the group of students, but she had no intention of joining them. Not with her eyes puffy and her cheeks still slick. Annie would only squeeze her hand and ask about her tummy ache. Rhys and Siân’s eyes would soften with sympathy while, all around her, people would nudge each other whispering: monthlies, monthlies, monthlies …

  Bridie fumbled for a hanky and blew her nose. She picked her way through the groups of women and toddling children seated amid ships, trying not to waddle around the great wad of cloth pinned between her legs. It must be possible to walk normally. All over Covent Garden, women had managed their monthlies. Now it was her turn to learn. She turned towards the shore.

  Lady Sophia had anchored apart from the other ships. Yet all around her, at a safe distance, the harbour teemed with life. Small boats plied their wares alongside other, non-quarantine ships. Sailors loaded vessels. Men black as soot rowed smartly dressed ship’s officers towards a huddle of official buildings.

  She’d seen black men before. Only here, there were so many of them, with wide-white smiles and brightly coloured bandanas. The air seemed to thrum with the sound of their stop-me-start language.

  Bridie wrinkled her nose. Annie was right. It did smell different—all fruit and earth and flowers, like Covent Garden on market morning. Except this place was nothing like home. Stone buildings lined the shore, one of them a fort. Though its shape was foreign, unlike anything she had ever seen before. The whole town seemed to be held in the grip of the surrounding mountains.

  Mountains? So, that’s what they looked like—tall and brooding and magnificent, even the one with the sliced-off top made the town buildings look like dollhouses.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it, Bridie Stewart? As if the land itself held stories?’

  Bridie startled, dropping her hanky. She’d been so absorbed in the sights, she’d missed Rhys coming alongside. She took a deep breath and glanced sideways. Was Ma right? Had she been guilty of making eyes at him? No, she hadn’t, and she wouldn’t let Ma spoil things. Besides, even if she had been guilty, Rhys appeared not to have noticed. He stooped to pick up the hanky and handed it back to her, the gesture easy and brotherly like it had always been—towards her and Annie and all the other single girls in steerage.

  He nodded to indicate a mountain on the right side of the harbour. ‘That one’s called Lion’s Head. Can you guess why?’

  ‘No.’ She sniffed, pocketing her hanky.

  ‘See its nose and eyes, like a lion’s head? Table Mountain, the flat one’s called. The clouds lay over it like a tablecloth. On the left you have Devil’s Mountain. The sailors tell me a pirate, called Van Hunks, met the devil there for a smoking contest. Whenever a wind blows from the southeast, the cloud hovers and people say, “Van Hunks and the devil are smoking again.” What do you think, Bridie Stewart? Does it look like smoke to you?’

  Bridie shrugged, not ready to trust her voice.

  He chuckled. ‘I’d not normally be letting you off so easily but … you’ve had a difficult morning, I’m guessing.’

  Bridie flushed at the veiled reference to her monthlies.

  ‘I’ll not press you, bach. But I’m here, and Siân, if you need to talk.’

  Bridie nodded, a sob swelling in her chest. There was so much to say—a great aching need that cleaved her breast like an axe. But where to begin? It was all so mixed up and sordid, especially with Ma’s most recent accusation. Even if she left that out, told Rhys only about Alf and Ma and her dad, there was nothing he could do, nothing he could say to change things.

  ‘My dad told me a story once, an African story he’d heard it at the theatre. You know, from one of the sailors.’

  ‘Not about Van Hunks, the pirate, I gather?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘A different story. About a crocodile. I didn’t write it down. I don’t know why. Perhaps, I didn’t like it, even then.’

  ‘But you do now?

  ‘No. But I can see it differently.’

  She looked up, noting his silence, the shadows beneath his eyes, the way he watched her, even now, with a trying-to-understand smile.

  ‘It was a long time ago, you know, when the animals could still talk. Though it couldn’t have been that long ago because the Dutch people already lived at The Cape. Anyway, that’s beside the point.’ She gave
a shaky laugh. ‘No need to worry about where the story starts or where the history ends.’

  ‘Indeed. You are learning, Bridie Stewart.’

  ‘In that day, not so long ago, when the Dutch were still new in the land, a crocodile grew weary of the other animals coming to drink from his section of the river. He hated the smell of their droppings and the way they muddied the banks with their hooves. Being a fiendish creature, he came up with a plan to rid himself of the other beasts.

  ‘He called a meeting and persuaded them that the river was drying up. He said they must make a trek across the plains to a better water source. The animals were alarmed, for none could live without water. Only the wily jackal sensed deceit in the crocodile’s plan.

  ‘No one heeded the jackal’s protests. The crocodile was so convincing. He’d arranged everything for their safety, he assured them with great earnest tears that made it impossible to doubt him. In the end, all apart from the jackal voted in favour of making the trek.

  ‘It was a long journey and hazardous. But the animals set out bravely. They walked for many days and nights, with the elephants carrying the slender meerkats and the lions keeping pace with the tortoises. At last the new river came into sight.

  ‘It was so big and beautiful, that river. It took their breath away. Yet, as soon as they entered the water, the first shots rang out. For the jackal was right. It had been a trick all along—a great big ugly trick, like my dad and his stories, like Alf and Ma. Like everything.’ She waved her hand over the strange rocky vastness of their surroundings. ‘For the crocodile had been in cahoots with the farmers all along.’

  Rhys didn’t reply. He stayed silent for so long, Bridie feared he wasn’t going to answer. Hands tight on the rail, he stood gazing out over the glittering bay. When he did finally speak, his words were laced with sorrow.

  ‘Growing up is never easy, bach. I’ll not lie to you. Or, indeed, seeing with different eyes. Sometimes, I think the process will never end. But I do know one thing and, trust me, this is a lesson sorely learned. Whether it be a person, a situation, or a truth you are running from—even a truth that sends you half round the world, the fear is often worse than the reality. It may not feel like it at the time, Bridie bach. But, if you face that fear—I mean truly face it, then I think over time the hurting will ease. At least, I hope so, for you, and for me.’