Chapter 18
They didn’t stay long at The Cape. Once they had taken on food, water and livestock, Lady Sophia once again put out to sea. The open waters were a shock after the stillness of Table Bay. As the Atlantic Ocean met the Indian Ocean, seasickness once again drove Bridie into her bunk. Huddled beneath the blankets, she heard shouts, drubbing feet, and snapping canvas as the sailors battled against competing seas.
After rounding the Cape of Good Hope, the wind settled on a strong, westerly direction. Her sickness eased as Lady Sophia picked up her skirts and fairly danced across the waves. They wouldn’t see any more land until they reached the far off coast of Australia, precious little shipping. They now faced the longest, uninterrupted sea stretch of their voyage. It was a halfway point, of sorts. Time to pull chests from the hold, retrieve musty clothing and stow dirty items for the remainder of the journey.
Bridie was shocked upon opening their battered wooden chest to find her clothes looking older and shabbier than remembered. Annie was right—her bodices were getting tight. Even with the new set of stays Ma produced, she couldn’t seem to fasten them. Ma and Siân faced a similar problem. Their bellies had swollen like melons over the months at sea. Shaking of heads and exclamations told Bridie their mess weren’t the only ones affected.
‘There’s no help for it,’ a plump matron declared. ‘We need privacy for fitting and fixing, without the men gawking at us.’
A meeting was held, a decision made, action taken. Men were banished from steerage between four and eight bells on the afternoon watch, children thrust into the arms of reluctant fathers, and a hive of activity commenced in which gossip seemed to be the primary ingredient.
Bridie had no desire to be part of a sewing circle. But there was no point trying to wriggle out of the situation. She was a woman now. She belonged with the women. She stripped down to her stays and petticoats, trying not to think about the small breasts budding beneath her shift. Once her measurements were taken, Ma thrust a bundle of rags into her hand.
‘Here. Stitch some monthly pads. We’ll need extra now you’ve started.’
‘Hush. Keep your voice down.’ Bridie glanced sideways, heat flushing her cheeks.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Bridie. We’re all in the same situation here.’
Ma had a point. Bridie wasn’t the only one stripped down to her small clothes. She saw rolls of dimpled flesh, hairy armpits, and nipples of all shapes and sizes poking through sheer white shifts. She didn’t know where to look, or how not to listen as, all around her, women discussed the intimate details of their bodies.
Mrs Reid had piles (Bridie didn’t need to know that), and going to the privy was like passing canon balls. Mrs Burns had terrible pain with her monthlies, like her insides were coming apart at the seams.
Bridie knew what was like. Her own innards had scarcely recovered from the experience. But she saw no reason to talk about it. Though Mrs Scott certainly warmed to the topic. Telling anyone who cared that she hadn’t bled for three years.
‘Only twenty-seven,’ she added with a sigh, ‘and already going through the change.’
Well, lucky Mrs Scott. If only Bridie’s body had been so obliging, she wouldn’t be sitting in steerage making monthly pads amongst a gaggle of half-naked women. The Griggs family were expecting another baby. Pam thought it might have been conceived during the typhus epidemic.
‘Honestly,’ she gave a low chuckle, ‘I don’t know how Tom managed in all that heat. But once Billy started to recover, well, you know how it is, girls. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.’
Gasps of amazement greeted this happy news. Though Bridie wasn’t surprised. She’d heard the Griggs’ grunts and moans after lights out and, although she’d scrunched her eyes tight and pressed her hands to her ears, she’d gathered they were pleasuring each other beneath the blankets.
She lost focus momentarily, jabbing herself with the needle, at the memory of their quivering bunk. She glanced up, sucking her thumb, as Ma took a deep, tell-all breath. With a horrified shudder, Bridie feared she was about to hear about Alf and Ma’s under- blanket activities.
‘I knew a Welsh woman back in England, Siân. Blodwen, her name was. She lived down by Lambeth. Had a stall at Taffy’s Fair.’
Siân nodded. Clothed only in her chemise and petticoats, she was unpicking the seams of her skirts.
‘You didn’t know her then, this Blodwen?’
‘No, sorry. You liked her, Mrs Bustle?’
‘Not so much the woman, her craft. She was a healer like your aunt.’ Ma’s brows rose as if to indicate the delicate nature of Blodwen’s remedies. ‘I visited her a number of times, and always to great effect.’
Bridie wriggled forward on the bench. Now, this was interesting, and so far no mention of baby making.
‘You’d not have needed her yourself, Siân. Knowing the methods, as you do.’
‘Methods?’
Ma leaned forward, voice low. ‘You know … tricks to make yourself conceive.’
‘But … surely, there’s only one way to conceive.’
Warmth, like a flame, ran up and scorched Bridie’s cheeks. Her mind filled with a sudden sharp image of Rhys—his slender hand tracing Siân’s face in the dark, her mouth finding his, their bodies moving together, skin on skin. For some reason, her abdomen turned liquid at the thought.
She jerked a pin from her half-finished pad and stabbed it into her pincushion. How had the conversation taken this uncomfortable turn? She preferred the intimate details of Mrs Reid’s piles. Or the animal antics of Tom Griggs. Anything was better than … well, better than thinking about Rhys … and Siân.
But there was no help for it. Ma was talking again—more loudly now, it seemed. Bridie could do nothing but listen, with a strange heavy drawing in her belly and blood thrumming in her ears.
‘It was Blodwen who helped me conceive.’
Bridie peeped up from beneath her cap, saw Ma pat her bulging waistline. Her mouth fell open. She snapped it shut. How did someone have help making a baby? Still, it made sense. Alf was pretty hopeless. But, no. She didn’t want to think about that either—not Alf and Ma.
‘Bridie too. I’ve always had trouble.’
Her dad too!
Bridie startled in her seat. She knew how women fell pregnant; of course, she did. Though she’d never expected it to be such a noisy, grunting activity. Her knowledge didn’t include Welsh women … or charms. She paused, mid stitch, waited. Siân glanced sideways, her lips a knowing twitch.
‘What herb was it, Mrs Bustle? Do you remember?’
‘Mandrake, I think she called it.’
‘I know the herb.’ Siân nodded. ‘Gathered at the full moon, picked with the left hand, never cut, mind, and drawn under a clean white cloth. Planhigyn yn peri cyfog, we call it. A powerful herb.’
‘The same! You’d know how to use it then?’
‘I might, if we could find it in the colony.’
Ma leaned close, lowering her voice. ‘I’ve got the seeds. Only, I wouldn’t know the words of the charm.’
‘You’re wanting another child, Mrs Bustle?’
Ma sighed, her voice heavy with sorrow. ‘Not so much another child, Siân. A healthy one. I love Alf, you understand. He’s a good man. And I’d like to give him a son. But I’ve had that much trouble in the past. Even if I do carry this baby to full term, I might lose it at birth. If that were to happen, I’d like to try again, for Alf’s sake.’
Fortunately, the conversation soon took a different turn. Bridie was left alone with her body’s strange reactions. As the afternoon drew to a close, gossip gave way to a determined silence as, all along the deck, women stitched against the hourglass. Bridie finished her fifth monthly pad and started on a sixth. Siân stitched her skirts waists back together and started lengthening the drawstrings. Annie stood, arms outstretched while Ma refitted her new gown.
The garment, a simple cotton mantua, had been a second-hand gift from Annie�
�s aunt. She’d unpicked it and with Ma’s help tacked it back together. Now was time for final adjustments before finishing off the seams. Pincushion in hand and a measure tape around her neck, Ma was in her element, her mind mercifully focused on nothing more intimate than Annie’s lack of sewing experience.
‘Surely this isn’t the first time you’ve remade a gown, Annie?’
‘It is, Mrs Bustle. I’ve stitched my own pinafores and caps. But never remade a complete gown. My mum died when I was young, remember? My dad could barely thread a needle.’
‘Couldn’t your aunt have helped?’
‘Perhaps. But she wasn’t interested. She was too busy organising my emigration.’
Bridie eyed the soft green dress tacked close to Annie’s form. Its tight waist hugged Annie’s slim figure, its well-placed darts moulding around the modest swell of her breast. The fabric was good quality, her aunt clearly wealthy. Flushed and excited as she was now, Annie looked, well … almost pretty.
Pam was clearly of the same mind. ‘You look a treat, Annie. That gown sets your figure off to perfection. You’ll be swamped with marriage proposals in Port Phillip. You mark my words.’
‘Thanks, Mrs Griggs. But I doubt even Mrs Bustle’s dressmaking will help my prospects.’
‘Men want more than a pretty face, Annie.’
‘I’ve got scars all over me.’
Pam chuckled. ‘Trust me, a man with his trousers down won’t even notice. Look at me, pregnant on an emigrant vessel, and I’m no oil painting. Tom’s not much of a romantic either. Though, he is rather keen on the under-blanket activities.’
‘How did you meet him, Mrs Griggs? If you don’t mind me asking?’
Bridie smiled at how neatly Annie steered the conversation away from herself. Pam didn’t seem to notice. She dimpled, enjoying the limelight.
‘He was a customer,’ she wagged a finger, ‘and no, girls, not that kind of customer. I worked in a cook shop, back then. Tom started walking me home of an evening. Lord, the man could talk! But I liked that about him. One day, right out of the blue he said: “Pam, I’ve had enough of waiting for the situation to improve. There’s opportunities opening up in a place called Port Phillip. It’ll take time, and there’s no guarantee of success. But … what do you say, old girl? Would you like to apply with me?”
‘Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather, Annie, right there in High Street. But I thought, Pam, here’s a man with an eye for the future. So I agreed, right then and there, to marry him.’
Ma sniffed, tweaking at an organ pleat in the waist of Annie’s gown. ‘Pam’s right. Looks aren’t everything. You want a good, sensible man who will provide for you.’
Annie nodded, as if taking the advice to heart, though doubt still puckered her brow. She clearly didn’t think she’d have much choice. Or maybe she didn’t fancy marrying an ageing, yellow-toothed builder who mistook emigration plans for a marriage proposal.
‘What about you, Mrs Bustle?’ Siân interrupted with a smile. ‘Had you known Mr Bustle long before you married him?’
Now it was Ma’s turn to blush. So she should, turning to Alf while her husband was still alive.
‘An awfully long time, in fact, Siân. He lodged in the same house as my first husband, Archie, and me. I knew him to be a kind, sensible man and I couldn’t help admiring him. Though,’ she fixed Bridie with a withering glare, ‘there was nothing improper in our friendship.’
‘Oh, no. A good, honest man, is Mr Bustle. Not one for anything improper. Bridie knows that surely?’
Bridie didn’t look up, though the question was directed at her. She wouldn’t give Ma the satisfaction of answering. Siân was right, of course. Alf didn’t have the nouse to plan anything improper, let alone carry it out. But it had happened, whether he’d meant it to or not, and she wasn’t about to let Ma off the hook.
‘Well, Bridie, what do you say? Siân has asked you a question.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Alf was a good friend to your father. I can’t count the times he helped him up the stairs, or listened to his maudlin ramblings. But you don’t remember that, do you? Perhaps I should have told you more at the time.’
Alf? A friend to her father! Head down, Bridie didn’t respond.
Ma shrugged, turning back to Siân. ‘My first husband was a musician and a dreamer, gentle, softly spoken, poetic, not unlike your husband. Not that I wish to insult you, Siân. I hope you’ll not take it unkindly. But I hope, for your sake, that Rhys has more spine than Archie did.’
‘I know my husband’s weaknesses, Mrs Bustle, and lack of spine has never been one of them. Rhys would do anything to keep me from harm—anything, though it be at great cost to himself.’
Ma sniffed, clearly unconvinced. ‘I hope you’re right. These handsome dreamers are so appealing. My father warned me not to marry Archie. I didn’t pay him any heed. Though, looking back, it was a fool’s choice from the beginning.’
‘No!’ Bridie jerked up, slapping her half-made monthly pad down on the bench. ‘You loved him once. I know you did.’
‘I thought I loved your father, Bridie, I truly did. He was a handsome man … so handsome, and a fine musician in the early days. His stories and ballads fair turned my head at the age of seventeen. But those things didn’t last. Once his cough started and he couldn’t play his blessed instrument, the real Archie Stewart emerged. He wasn’t so fine then, was he? Or romantic? His foolish dreams didn’t help much at all.’
‘They might have … if you’d believed in him.’
‘Ah, no, girlie. Love isn’t a fairy tale. I think even Siân would agree with me. It’s about getting up each day, though your heart is breaking, taking a job, any job, if only to see your wife and daughter fed. I’m not saying Rhys would do the same to you, Siân. I’d not wish that on anyone. But Annie should think twice before marrying and, when she does, choose carefully.’
Annie blanched at being dragged back into the conversation. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Bustle. Lovely as this dress is, it won’t be working any miracles. I mean, my own aunt didn’t want me … because I’m ugly. Even for a man with his trousers down, that’s a pretty hard thing to overlook.’
There wasn’t much to say after that. Their afternoon had soured. Ma snipped at her thread with her teeth. Siân flipped her skirts right-way-out and struggled back into them. Annie slipped out of the half-made mantua and shrugged into her old gown. Bridie rose and started laying mugs out along the table. As the men came tramping down the ladder, Siân slid onto the bench beside Annie. She leaned close, pitching her voice low. But Bridie couldn’t help overhearing.
‘Cursed, I was, in my village, Annie bach. Never mind a bit of scarring. They called me the devil’s child. I’d be an old maid still, if not for Rhys. He might be handsome, as Mrs Bustle said, and a dreamer. But he saw beyond my ugliness. Someone will do the same for you, one day, Annie bach. Wait now and see.’
Chapter 19
Nothing more was said of Siân’s confession, or Ma’s bitter advice. But Bridie wasn’t able to forget their conversation. How could a girl be born cursed? Especially one as lovely as Siân. Was this the shadow hanging over Rhys? And what about her dad? She remembered hunger, of course, their coats hanging in the pawnshop window, Ma stitching until her fingers bled. But her dad had been sick. They’d had no choice. Or so Bridie thought. Now, she wasn’t sure.
Maybe he could he have tried harder? Done something, anything, to keep them warm and fed. He hadn’t. He’d turned his face to the wall and let them suffer. Why? Because he was a dreamer who didn’t love them? Were all dreamers weak? All big, dull men reliable? Siân didn’t think so. She’d called herself fortunate. Yet, anyone could see she was worried about Rhys. The hiss had gone from the Bevans’ late night arguments. But by day, tension still hung like a cat’s cradle between them. Bridie saw it in the twist of Siân’s hands, their too-careful conversations, the way Rhys’s face seemed to be growing thinner and paler by the minut
e.
One afternoon, as they sat in the shadow of the main mast, Siân seemed to reach a decision. Squaring her shoulders, she placed a hand on Rhys’s knee.
‘I’d like to tell today’s story, cariad.’
Rhys glanced up, his eyes dark, wary. ‘The one about Macsen Wledig? As we promised Bridie?’
‘No. That is not the story for today.’
Bridie straightened up, glancing from Siân to Rhys and back again. This was odd. Siân never told stories. She always performed the songs and dialogue, leaving the narration to Rhys. She wasn’t the only one surprised by the sudden change of plan.
‘What story did you have in mind then, Siân?’
‘I’d like to tell the story of March ap Meirchion’s ears.’
Rhys winced as if the idea pained him. ‘No. Please, Siân. Not that one.’
‘We can’t go on like this, Rhys.’
‘And you think this will help? After all these miles, these terrible months at sea, to throw away the chance of a fresh start?’
‘I can’t see the future anymore, Rhys. I don’t know how this voyage will end. Only that we must make our peace now … before it’s too late.’
She turned to Bridie. ‘You’ll not mind, I hope, bach? I’ll not tell the story as well as Rhys. But you are part of his journey now and,’ she smiled, tilting her head, ‘I’ve a sense you too need to hear March ap Meirchion’s story.’
Her, part of Rhys’s journey? Something in Siân’s voice brought a spidery dread to Bridie’s spine. Yet the Welsh girl’s smile was compelling. She found herself nodding in agreement.
‘March ap Meirchion was a good king, Bridie bach, always gentle and kind. But, alas, he’d been born with a set of horse’s ears on his head. Over the years, King March took great pains to hide his deformity—wearing a parade of fancy bonnets and hats. For, if the ears were discovered, he feared he would lose the respect of his subjects. Indeed, no one but his barber knew of the curse, and that poor man was sworn to secrecy.’
The Tides Between Page 19