The Tides Between

by Elizabeth Jane Corbett

  Rhys shook his head. ‘I am dead to him, Mam said. As if he’d never had a third son.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Rhys.’

  ‘And me, for interfering.’

  ‘It’s all right. You were only trying to help.’

  He gave a wistful, half smile. ‘You’ll likely think me foolish. But every morning, I think today he will relent. Today a letter will come. Even here on this ship. And I tell you Bridie, if that letter did come, I’d build me a coracle and sail home on the ninth wave, if only to put things right with him.’

  Bridie heard the ache in his voice, saw the desperate working of his throat, and her heart twisted. He’d trusted her with his secrets, called her the friend that mattered, for surely this too was a curse—this fear and estrangement, and there was one small way she could help him. ‘All right! I’ll play your silly game.’

  ‘Game!’

  ‘Yes, you know, the one in which we prepare an item for the Christmas concert, in order to please Alf, without me having to apologise. It’s a clever ploy, Rhys, and I thank you for the opportunity. I’m sure Alf will grin like an ape when he hears of it, not to mention Ma’s gloating. It will be dreadful, truly dreadful. I will therefore do it one condition—that I do it for you and Siân. Oh, I know,’ she held up a silencing hand, ‘you don’t want my thanks. But those are my terms.’

  Rhys grinned. ‘It seems you have me backed into a corner, Bridie Stewart. Though, I think, you’ll have to explain the rules. For I must confess, I’d not thought of it in terms of a game before.’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy. Fancy you not working it out. We’re going to send a message to your dad. Not via the postal service. It’s too unreliable. Besides, he wouldn’t read a letter from you. Therefore, we’ll send your message via a friend. For as you help this friend with her stepfather, it will work a kind of magic, and, one day, because of it, someone will do the same for you and your dad.’

  ‘Clever girl. Though, I must say, it’s a strange kind of magic. Do you think it’ll help?’

  Bridie laughed. It wasn’t real magic, not like Siân’s, and she had no idea whether it would work. But she was willing to try, for Rhys’s sake. Indeed, if he’d asked her then to spill her secrets, she might have found the courage to utter them. For she would do anything, she realised—anything, for this gentle young man at her side.

  Okay, so maybe not anything. At least, not during supper that evening. When Alf plonked down onto the bench, Bridie’s mind spun a web of excuses. She flushed, seeing Rhys’s brows rise. She shrugged, mouthing the word tomorrow across the table.

  She woke the next morning with a flood of recollection. Peeling back the bedcovers, she jerked her bodice and petticoats from their overhead pegs. This was going to be dreadful, truly dreadful. For a moment, as she sat shivering in her nightdress, she wished she hadn’t agreed to the scheme.

  By the time she’d dressed and clambered down from her bunk, breakfast had already started. To her surprise, Rhys was seated at the table. How odd. He never came down for breakfast and, by the tight, whiteness of his face, he wasn’t enjoying the experience. She sighed, slipping onto the bench beside him.

  ‘What are you doing? Checking up on me?’

  ‘Good morning to you, too, Bridie Stewart.’

  She saw his fingers clench around the raised table edge, the uneaten ship’s biscuit on his plate. ‘It’s all right. You don’t have to be here.’

  ‘I’ll admit. I’m hoping not to have to join you a second time.’

  ‘Then, why? Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘I told you, some burdens are too heavy to carry alone.’

  Right. Bridie took a deep breath and blew out through her puffed cheeks. She was going to have to ask, now, over breakfast, with everyone else listening. She eyed her stepfather. He looked bleary-eyed and placid. But what if he ignored her?

  She glanced sideways at Rhys. He raised an eyebrow, a smile playing about his mouth. Oh, yes, it was all very amusing. But the pallor of his face was truly alarming. Who’d have imagined steerage could have such an effect on someone?

  She swivelled round. ‘Er … Alf?’

  Nothing. She raised her voice. ‘Excuse me … Alf?’

  Still no answer. She glanced at Rhys. He jerked his chin upwards. She waited for a lull in the conversation, cupped her hands around her mouth.

  ‘Alf!’

  Their mess fell silent, all eyes on Bridie. She ducked her head, heard Ma’s hiss of indrawn breath, felt the quiver of Rhys’s laughter. Alf turned, fixing his miserable old-dog eyes on her.

  ‘Yes, lass?’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.’

  ‘Not this time,’ Ma muttered.

  Bridie flushed, ignoring Ma’s comment. ‘I was … well, I mean … Rhys and I were wondering whether we might ask a favour of you?’

  ‘A favour? The nerve of it!’ Ma bristled in Alf’s defence.

  ‘Now, Mary.’ Alf laid a hand on her arm. ‘Let’s not be hasty. What did you have in mind, Bridie love?’

  Bridie! Love!

  Was he being kind? Or just plain stupid? She looked up into his round, earnest face. She thought, perhaps, kind. Which only made the whole thing more awkward.

  ‘Actually, we’ve been thinking about the Christmas Concert. Well, actually, Rhys has. He’s convinced me to take part.’

  ‘Excellent. Very educational. Is it a story you’ve been working on?’

  ‘No, actually, we’ve decided to write a poem.’

  ‘A poem?’ Alf’s gaze flicked from her, to Rhys, and back again.

  ‘Yes. We thought you might help.’

  Alf shook his head. ‘It’s a kind offer, lass, but I might have to let you down. I’ve no great talent for verse.’

  ‘Oh, it’s okay. I know you can’t write verse. Or imagine things. But, we thought, well … we might do a poem with a nautical theme and you could help … you know, with the names of sails and things.’

  ‘The sails?’ Alf’s creased blue gaze found Rhys.

  He nodded. ‘I’ve very little nautical knowledge, Mr Bustle. But with your help, we could make it a team effort.’

  Alf shook his head. ‘Nice try, son, and I appreciate the gesture. But I think we both know my expertise is lifted straight from the pages of a penny magazine.’

  ‘It’s more than I have, Mr Bustle.’

  ‘Then you’d best ask the sailors. They’ll fill your page in a minute.’

  ‘Looking forward to it, Bridie was. And, as you said, educational, to try her hand at some composition.’

  Alf rose, pushing his plate to the centre of the table. ‘I told you to leave matters alone, son. Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Perhaps you should ask Bridie that question.’

  Bridie gulped. Things weren’t going as expected. Alf was supposed to be thrilled, Ma triumphant, herself squirming with virtuous embarrassment. Instead, she saw pain in Alf’s eyes, defeat in the sagging line of his shoulders. Her heart plummeted.

  ‘I won’t lie to you, Alf. At first, I wasn’t keen. I’m still not that interested in ships, if I’m honest. But I do want your help.’ She shrugged, glancing sideways at Rhys. ‘I can’t explain my reasons. You’d likely think them fanciful. But, sometimes, a thing is worth doing, if it means a lot to another person.’

  Bridie would need charts, she told Rhys, before she could start working with Alf, one for each sail, with a name box for each relevant part. For some reason, she couldn’t get started. She chewed her pencil, gazing up at the shrouds. How had it come to this? Alf wasn’t her dad. She’d never asked him to take an interest. Yet maybe he did care about her future, like Rhys said. Was offering her a friendship, like the one he’d given her dad?

  These questions didn’t help her motivation. Only made her feel small and shabby. But there were only so many times she could sit with her brow creased in concentration, or scrub at diagrams with an eraser. Eventually the charts were finished. She laid them before Rhys at the end of their story session
.

  ‘There you are, all done. Alf had better be impressed.’

  ‘He’ll see the care in these drawings. Mark my words. We’ll see magic this evening.’

  ‘No, Rhys. I will see magic.’

  ‘Miss Determined, now, is it?’

  ‘I’m not joking. If you even set foot in steerage after supper, I won’t bother asking.’

  ‘Rest assured then, Bridie bach, I’ll not hinder you with my presence.’

  He didn’t. But when Bridie shoved her diagrams across the table that evening, Alf sighed deeply.

  ‘You meant it then, lass?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I can see you’ve gone to a great deal of effort …’

  … for Rhys. The words hung unspoken between them. Bridie squirmed, looking down at the charts. ‘I’m sorry, Alf.’

  ‘For what?’

  She shrugged. ‘Everything.’

  ‘You can’t pretend an interest, lass. I was a fool to try to force a friendship. But perhaps we can start again … with something you’re interested in?’

  She had no desire to start again, only get the charts filled out and start writing her poem with Rhys. But as much as she resented Alf’s presence in her life, she wasn’t going to lie to him again. ‘I’m not sure. Let’s see how this goes, shall we?’

  Alf flinched, as if taking a blow. His big blunt fingers curled. He’d understood, the words spoken and unspoken—and it hurt. For some reason, Bridie was shocked to find the knowledge pained her too.

  Chapter 20

  Rhys smiled to see Bridie and Alf standing on the main deck together the following morning. Alf’s face glowed with pleasure as he pointed out the various squares of canvas. Rhys couldn’t say the same for Bridie. Her scowl could have manured a garden. But over the following days, as she listened and scribbled down terms, resentment gave way to a determined jut of her chin.

  It wasn’t the answer. Bridie still harboured secrets, secrets with which for all Rhys’s effort, she’d chosen not to confide in him. But in the absence of her confidence, this shared project with Alf was the best he could offer. And although Bridie sometimes pouted, dismissing Alf with a hard shrug of her shoulder, at other times, they worked together long and hard and, true to her word, she never asked Rhys to join them.

  It was a kindness, in truth. He had no desire to spend extra time in steerage. He’d made his peace with Siân. They were ready to face the challenges of a new land. But his fear of enclosed spaces was worsening. He spent most of his waking hours on the main deck now, having given up all pretence of sleeping in steerage. Yet even curled up behind the horsebox, he’d begun to have dreams—vivid, blood-filled dreams, involving Siân and Doctor Roberts’ scalpel. As Lady Sophia made her snail-like progress towards the western coast of Australia, he’d begun to dread the prospect of her giving birth, on board ship, with Doctor Roberts in attendance.

  His fears weren’t logical. Doctor Roberts was a cold, selfish man who preyed on young women. But he was a qualified surgeon who needed his gratuity and that required live bodies at the end of the voyage. Then why the nightmares? Were they a premonition, like he’d had in London? Sensing Siân was in trouble before the news of Rhonwen’s death ever reached him? Or were they the haunt of her simple admission?

  I don’t know how this journey will end.

  He couldn’t see the future either. Only a dark empty space where determination once lived. Perhaps he was finally losing his wits. The nightly drub of his boots suggested the latter—that he would arrive in Port Phillip a gibbering idiot, unable to care for his wife and child. Rhys shivered, despite the warmth of the December night, and pulled the blanket tight about his shoulders.

  What if it wasn’t madness? He’d made an enemy of Doctor Roberts from the outset. Crist! What a fool—and a coward. If he hadn’t been so pathetic, he’d not have missed the cleaners’ meeting or been forced to beg for second chances. If he hadn’t been so defensive, he’d not have overreacted, by telling Dic Penderyn’s story in steerage. If he hadn’t been quivering like a blancmange the following morning, he’d not have taunted Doctor Roberts with the knowledge of his past. But he had done all those things. Now Siân might pay for the looseness of his tongue.

  Rhys closed his eyes and took a long steadying breath. Land smelled close. A strange, mingled scent of earth and foliage hovering above the sea’s briny offering told him victory was at hand. If he could only get Siân through the travail of childbirth, they might yet build a future in the new land. But how to keep her safe from Doctor Roberts’ scalpel? Ask to be present at the birth? No, Doctor Roberts hated him, as did Mary Bustle. Pam was too sick with her own pregnancy. Which left only one other option: Annie Bowles.

  It wasn’t hard catching Annie alone. Over the past weeks, as Siân’s balance had grown precarious, Annie had taken on extra mess duties to compensate. Rhys often found himself working alongside the shy, damaged girl. This morning was no exception. They stood, side by side on the leeward half of the deck, awaiting their allocated meat ration. Everyone else—those not rostered on mess duties—crowded the bulwarks awaiting a first glimpse of the foreign shore.

  The western coast of Australia was visible from the crow’s nest. This was causing a frenzy of excitement below. People stood on tiptoes, craning their necks as each windward tack brought them closer to the shore. Cape Leeuwin was the name being bandied about, the point at which the Indian Ocean met the Southern Ocean. Awesome and mysterious, the words were like a doxology to Rhys.

  He could scarcely keep from dropping to his knees.

  It was too early for celebration, however. They still had to sail from Cape Leeuwin to Port Phillip, a considerable distance, even as the crow flew. But within weeks, he’d be spewed from the belly of this great fish and crawl shivering onto the shore. He’d been a fool from the outset, thinking he could outrun a curse, let alone manage the closeness of steerage. But if they arrived safe, none of it would matter—the arguments, the pacing, the overreacting.

  They could start life afresh in a new land.

  Rhys leaned back, his shoulder against the deckhouse, and smiled at the antics of the steward. The man’s movements were slow, exaggerated, as if he too were infected by the festive atmosphere. He jabbed his long-handled fork into the harness cask, speared a lump of salt beef, held it aloft, and read from a metal disc attached to the joint.

  ‘Six pounds, six ounces.’ The steward’s sandy whiskers opened to reveal a row of untidy teeth.

  Doctor Roberts ran a bored finger down the list, searching for a group whose allowance matched the weight on the disc.

  ‘Mess seven!’

  A representative from mess seven, a group of Scotsmen who often traded their rice and pease for oats, jostled forward.

  ‘Ah, it’s the Oat Eaters.’ The steward’s eyes gleamed over the flourish of his beard.

  ‘Haggis, too, when it’s on offer,’ a member of mess seven hollered. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing, Cat’s Whiskers.’

  A trill of laughter ran through the crowd. The steward liked to poke fun, enjoying the return of banter. Though no one had called him Cat’s Whiskers to his face before.

  Rhys glanced sideways. Annie was a calm, sensible companion, not prone to idle chatter. But she seemed subdued this morning, neither smiling at the antics of the steward, nor glancing shoreward. Her hands gripped the metal rim of the meat pan as if she found the prospect of land unsettling.

  ‘Not looking forward to it, Annie?’

  ‘No. What about you?’

  ‘Me? I can’t wait to get off this ship.’

  Annie’s eyes searched his face. ‘What about Siân? You’ll want her giving birth before we arrive, with Doctor Roberts in attendance?’

  It was the last thing Rhys wanted—a man who seduced young women, who’d registered as surgeon superintendent on an emigrant vessel to escape a host of creditors, who was most likely travelling under an assumed name. Wilson, Rhys thought the surgeon’s name was:
Doctor Franklin Robert Wilson. At least, that’s what he recalled of the fancy brass nameplate on Barnett High Street.

  ‘I’ve a favour to ask of you, Annie.’

  She smiled, her grey eyes softening. ‘Of course, you only have to ask.’

  ‘I want you to look after Siân … during her confinement.’

  ‘But,’ Annie flushed, dropping her gaze, ‘I don’t know anything about babies … or birthing. Only what I’ve heard in passing.’

  ‘Doctor Roberts relies on you greatly.’

  ‘For lice and boils, yes, but … hardly for a birth. He’ll want Mrs Scarcebrook in attendance.’

  ‘I’d like you there too, Annie.’

  ‘Goodness. Whatever for?’

  Rhys shifted, face in the shadows. How to explain his fear to this sensible, hardworking girl? The terror jerking him awake at night? Say, Doctor Roberts hates me because I know things. I fear he will take revenge on my wife and child? ‘Say you want to learn about birthing, perhaps.’

  ‘Well, it would be handy but … why, Rhys?’ It was a good question. She deserved an answer.

  He turned slowly to face her. ‘I’m frightened, Annie.’

  ‘Well, of course you’re frightened. But Doctor Roberts is a good surgeon. Not a kind man, I grant you. But experienced. Siân couldn’t be in better—’

  ‘Land! There it is. I can see it!’

  Annie’s words were interrupted by hoots of triumph. Men thumped each other’s shoulders, women planted kisses on their mess mates’ cheeks. Others jumped up and down, waving scarves and handkerchiefs, as if someone on the shore might see. Beside him, Annie’s eyes were a wash of tears.

  ‘Are you all right, Annie?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you sure? I didn’t mean to upset you. Here, give me the meat pan.’

  ‘No!’ She jerked it from his grasp.

  Rhys stepped back, palms raised. ‘Whoa, steady bach.’

  Annie flushed, biting down on her lip. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. Only … I’ve been so happy on board ship.’

  ‘And now it’s all coming to an end?’