‘Yes.’
‘It’s all right. I understand.’ Rhys gave her arm a gentle squeeze. ‘Fear takes us all differently. Go, join your friends.’ He pointed to a group of single girls staring wide-eyed at the shore. ‘No, doubt some will share your misgivings.’
Annie took two steps towards the group, halted. Swung back round. ‘What about Siân?’
‘I’m a fool, Annie, letting my fears run away with me. Take no notice. Go now, have fun. Look at the land. We’ll talk about the birth another time.’
Annie smiled, shaking her head. ‘You’re not a fool, Rhys. Only a first-time father. I doubt I’ll be of much use to Siân. But I’ll ask Doctor Roberts, if it’ll ease your mind, and do what I can for her when the time comes.’
Chapter 21
To Bridie’s surprise, Alf knew a great deal about Lady Sophia’s rigging. Anything he didn’t know, he asked old Joe the bosun’s mate. Between them, they managed to name every yard, sheet, and sail. It was a mammoth task, and not the least bit interesting. But working with Alf wasn’t as miserable as Bridie had imagined. As they grappled with the workings of the ship and sought to understand the sailors’ feverish activity on the yards, she found it easier to speak to him without snarling.
As Christmas approached, the excitement in steerage mounted. It felt odd with the day’s heat smarting their noses, but the deck rang with carols of an evening. The single men threw themselves into auditions and rehearsals. The choir took every opportunity to practise Rhys’s version of ‘Ar Hyd y Nos’. Clusters of single girls stood on the after part of the deck reciting stanzas of verse. Bridie and Rhys started work on their item.
Bridie had collected so many nautical terms she doubted they’d be able to fit them into a poem (at least, not one worth listening to). Rhys assured her it would be fine. They would pick and choose, using the odder terms to add an element of surprise.
Once the poem was written, they set about turning it into a performance. Rhys sought permission to use the captain’s speaking trumpet. Into this, Bridie would call commands like: Trim the sails! Or: Square the yards! For every command, Rhys came up with a response, mostly in the form of sea shanties, which he would play on his fiddle while Bridie urged the audience to sing along.
Ya-ho-hup-la haul there ha-ho-now-ho-hup-yaho-hoy-ya was her favourite. Rhys liked the pumping song: Haul the bowline, Kitty, you’re my darling, Haul the bowline, the bowline, haul.
When Rhys practised these songs, Bridie shut her eyes and tried to capture the rise and fall of his melodic voice. At other times, she focused on his slender face, memorising its shape, the tilt of his head, the smile that sometimes lit his eyes. She had begun to treasure their moments together, like bright beads, slipping through her fingers and puddling at the bottom of her memory’s purse. For it was vast land, this Great Southern Land. As they tacked between open sea and distant shore, Bridie had begun to suspect a person might disappear forever into its greyish, green unknown. And she realised, once they reached Port Phillip, she might never see Rhys or Siân again.
Despite the flutter of preparation, Bridie’s stomach clenched like a fist at the thought of standing up in front of an audience. Not a small fist either—a great, meaty dockworkers fist that tightened its fingers around the dwindling days of Advent. By Christmas Eve, she could barely eat for its size, let alone sleep.
‘Course, topsail, main-gallant, royal,
Sails on each mast: mizzen, main and fore.’
Curled in her bunk, Bridie’s head pounded with remembered lines. She heard two bells. Five o’ clock on the morning watch. She’d been awake half the night and, now, on top of it all, she was going to vomit. She moaned, her cheeks watering. The dockworker’s fist expanded. She jolted upright, grabbed her shawl, lurched from her bunk. She made a dash for the hatchway. Scrambling out from beneath the canvas awning, she saw the startled face of a sailor, felt a thump as she hit the side of the ship and leaned out over the bulwarks, hurling the contents of her stomach into the sea. Again she heaved, and again, her innards emptying like a wine skin. She pressed her forehead against the cool dark wood, their carefully constructed lines coiling in and out of her mind.
‘Fiddle-block, snatch block, deadeye, sheave,
Lanyard and halyard: vang, ratline and sheet.’
She straightened up as the wave of nausea passed and scanned the horizon. It was early—far too early to see clearly. A faint rosy tinge whispered the promise of early morning. Bridie shuffled across the deck, scooped a pannikin of water from the water butt, and drank deeply. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she surveyed the empty deck. A scuffle came from beyond the horsebox. She peered into the semi-dark, trying to make out a form. Was it the horse? Or Rhys? She strained her eyes, hoping to see movement in dawn’s waking hour.
Nothing. Perhaps she’d imagined it? Bridie blew warmth into her numb fingers and turned back towards the lightening sea. No. There it was again. More scuffles, a cough. She spun back round. Heard footsteps, definitely footsteps. Tiptoeing across the deck, she peered around the boat-end.
‘Rhys!’
‘Bridie!’ Wrapped in an old grey blanket, Rhys crawled out from behind the horsebox. ‘You might have told me you were going to rise for plygain.’
‘Plygain?’
‘An early morning watch to celebrate the birth of the Christ.’
‘That’s not why I’m here—and you know it!’
Rhys laughed, chafing his hands. ‘Nerves, is it?’
‘Don’t laugh. I haven’t forgotten whose idea this was in the first place.’
‘Your stepfather’s, I believe.’
Bridie grinned, stamping her feet. It was cold on the main deck—not the sleety cold of an English Christmas morning, a clear, missing-the-sun kind of chill, peculiar to these southern climes.
‘Aren’t you nervous?’
‘About today? No.’ He shook his head. ‘Nefi! There’s frozen, you look, Bridie. Here, take my blanket.’
‘I feel awful, Rhys. My stomach’s a bucket of earthworms.’
He chuckled, draping the blanket about her shoulders. ‘It’s always like that the first time.’
‘First. And last. I’m never doing this again.’
‘I’ll ask you afterwards. You might change your mind.’
Bridie doubted that very much. She’d enjoyed writing the verse, bringing together different combinations of word and sound. Watching Rhys turn their poem into a performance had also been magical. But she wasn’t enjoying herself now.
‘I must have been to the privy at least a thousand times.’
‘Duw! That’ll keep the cleaners busy. Nadolig Llawen, by the way, Bridie bach. I’ll help you greet the dawn.’
‘Oh, yes. Happy Christmas to you too.’
Three deep chimes interrupted their season’s greetings. The ship stretched and yawned. Dawn filled with waking sounds. Bridie could now make out a dark line of coast. Was it Cape Otway? One of the points they must pass between to enter the treacherous waters of Bass Strait? Alf had described the narrow entrance during supper last night. As they stood in the stiff early morning breeze, Bridie watched the red-tinged clouds lighten to a dusky mauve.
She turned to Rhys. ‘What story will you tell today?’
‘Today? Can you not guess?’
‘Hmm …’ Bridie pursed her lips. Rhys had been reticent to choose a story for the Christmas concert, as if by uttering the name he might bring on Siân’s labour pains. But he’d told the story of Pwyll and Rhiannon the previous Friday and, although Bridie had already heard the tale, she’d thrilled, along with everyone else to hear of Pwyll chasing a stag and encountering Arawn, King of the Underworld; blushed at the idea of Pwyll sharing a chaste bed with Arawn’s wife; and cheered loudly at the cunning defeat of Hafgan, his foe. The remainder, the story of Pryderi’s birth, the giant claw that ripped him away from his mother, and brave Teyrnon who’d waited up all night to rescue him, would make a fitting finale for their Christmas conc
ert.
‘Will you tell Pryderi’s story, perhaps?’
‘In Wales, we have a custom called Y Fari Lwyd.’ Rhys stood, legs apart, braced against the sea’s rising swell. ‘Between Christmas and New Year, groups of mummers go from house to house with a beribboned horse skull, singing riddles and verse. On outlying farms, a procession bearing cakes and ale makes its way to the stable of the finest ox. I suspect these customs are related to the story of Pryderi, wrapped in swaddling clothes, and found in Teyrnon’s stable.’
‘But Pryderi wasn’t found at Christmas.’
‘No, indeed. It was May Eve, another night when the door to the otherworld swings open.’
Bridie’s stomach swilled. Not just nerves—a rolling sensation. She clutched at the bulwarks. Rhys’s blanket slithered about her feet. Bending to pick it up, she bumped against the side of the ship. The sea’s mood was changing. No longer gentle, it slapped against the sides of the ship. She tilted her head back, letting the wind buffet her cheeks—thinking of May Eve, cursed births, stolen children, and of course, behind it all, the shadowy figure of her dad.
She would never know how he had fallen. But she suspected he had gone out courting death that final Christmas night. Was it Ma’s fault? She had no way of knowing. But, she thought, perhaps Ma had spoken the truth that sewing afternoon. If he’d loved them, he would have tried harder. He hadn’t, not nearly hard enough. She would live forever with the weight of that betrayal. But she wasn’t alone. She thought, perhaps, it was like that for everyone—for Rhys, with his fear of enclosed spaces; Siân with her shameful heritage; Annie’s scarring; Ma’s even-now bitterness; Alf, who tried so hard. What had Rhys said on the main deck that day? People are not eggs and apples. They are more complex. Maybe he was right. Maybe that was part of seeing differently—knowing they were each walking around with a set of horse’s ears on their heads. She reached out, laying her hand on top of Rhys’s.
‘Thank you.’
He smiled, squeezing her fingers. ‘Remember, I told you the ancient Britons associated time and place with the activities of the otherworld? In the valley where I come from people still believe that between eleven o’clock on Christmas Eve and one o’clock Christmas morning, the cattle bow in reverence to Christ.’
‘Truly? Has anyone ever seen it?’
‘No,’ Rhys raised his voice to compete with the rising wind, ‘for the person who sees it will surely die. But imagine if they had, Bridie bach. If only one of us had the courage of Teyrnon. Had been willing to wait up all night in the stable. Imagine what wonders we might have seen.’
Bridie swallowed, a lump like candle-wax forming in her throat. She gazed out over the rapidly changing sea. How did Rhys do this? How did he make his words pierce so precisely? She felt the weight in her chest shifting, a strange levering sense that it wouldn’t take much to lift it, that even if there was nothing Rhys could do to change things, this was the real magic, this friendship and, no matter how painful her secrets, she must find the courage to trust him.
‘I haven’t been honest with you Rhys.’
‘Yes, bach. I know.’
She shook her head, tears pressing. ‘Not only about my notebook. About everything—Ma and my dad, his accident, all of it. Right from the beginning.’
‘Then we are two of a kind, Bridie Stewart.’
She nodded, felt the tell-tale quiver of her lips. No, she mustn’t cry. Not this time. ‘I’ve wanted to speak, Rhys, for ever so long. Only, it hurt so much …’
‘And you were frightened.’
‘Yes.’
Rhys smiled, stepping back, and placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘You’ve made a start now, Bridie bach, and, rest assured, I’ll not let you wriggle out of the telling. But no matter how greatly I value the gift of your confidence, I’m afraid you’ll not get a chance to offer it this morning. Look!’ He pointed to the sky behind her. ‘Storm clouds coming from the west.’
Bridie followed the direction of his pointing finger. The sky had indeed blackened, its rosy tinge mired up by a dark bank of approaching cloud. She heard a peel of thunder, felt the deck heave beneath her feet. A storm? They would have to batten down the hatches, postpone the Christmas concert, spend the day holed up in steerage.
The weather was changing, even as these thoughts skimmed through her mind. An icy wave broke over the bows of the ship. She heard the yards creak, sails straining against their sheets, the rallying cry of: ‘All hands on deck!’
Sailors poured from the fo’c’s’le and swarmed up into the rigging to set small rugged sails against a gale. Clutching Rhys’s arm, Bridie staggered across the deck. She saw his face leach of colour as he stepped backwards onto the ladder, heard the overhead snap of canvas. As she plunged back down the ladder into steerage, the morning seemed to reel and shudder, as if a giant claw had ripped away its promise. Despite Rhys’s assurances, Bridie sensed she’d need the courage of Teyrnon to find it again.
Ma’s waters broke with the storm, at five bells on the morning watch, as seawater came gushing down through the hatchways, and Bridie didn’t have time to worry about courage, claws, or confessions. The floors were awash. People pushed and shoved, anxious to secure their belongings. Ma stood, mid-aisle, her skirts dripping.
‘Lord, Alf. The baby’s coming.’
‘Christ!’ Alf stopped mid-flight.
It was a shock. Alf never blasphemed. His round face glowed red as a chemist’s lamp.
‘Sorry, love. You gave me a fright.’
‘There’s worse to come. I’d not be worried about a bit of cursing.’ Ma shook her skirts, her trickling fluids joining the swirl of seawater underfoot.
‘I’d best get Doctor Roberts then, love.’
‘No rush. The baby won’t be born for hours.’
‘They’ll batten down the hatches.’
As if on cue, the carpenter slithered down through the hatch and started to worm his way through the wigwag of legs and arms. He unlocked the lamps and began to snuff them out, one by one. Alf adjusted his grip on the bedpost. His gaze flicked from Ma’s sodden skirts to the hatchway.
Ma seemed to guess his thoughts. ‘I was in labour two days with Bridie.’
‘Lord, Mary. We might be stuck here for two days.’
Ma’s smile faltered. Her face blanched white in the half-light. Wrapping her notebook in her petticoat, Bridie shoved it to the bottom of her bag and slithered down from her bunk. Alf swivelled round, grabbed his jacket, and wrapped a scarf around his neck. Ma’s voice rose, panicked.
‘Be reasonable. He won’t come out in a storm.’
‘He will for me. I’m his chief cleaning constable.’
It was ridiculous, as if he were discussing a stroll across an open deck. It would be a torrent out there, waves at sucking all in their path.
Alf scanned the deck. ‘Annie? Where’s Annie?’
‘Here, Mr Bustle.’
‘Ah, there you are. Good girl. I want you to take Mrs Bustle to the hospital. Yes, that’s right, grab her shawl. Tell the carpenter we’ll need a lamp, do you hear me? Don’t let him snuff it out. I’ll be back soon with Doctor Roberts.’
Annie nodded, taking Ma’s arm. Bridie stepped alongside and grasped Ma’s other hand as Alf began to force his way through the press of people.
Ma’s voice rose, shrill. ‘He won’t come. Please, Alf. It’s too dangerous.’
Alf wasn’t listening. For once, his solid good sense appeared to have left him. He reached the hatchway as the last plank was rammed into place. Stormwater oozed through the cracks, plastering his hair. He yelled, thumped with a fist. A plank lifted, then another. Alf bellowed through cupped hands. The bosun’s mate shook his head, his weathered face incredulous at whatever was being suggested. Alf gave a shove. The mate raised a fist.
Ma’s voice rose to a shriek. ‘He’s going to drown. Drown! And we’ll be alone again.’
Chapter 22
Alf crouched in the surge of wind and waves flooding the dec
k. The bosun’s mate fastened a line to the hatch post and leaned into the bullying wind. Head down, Alf followed him, bracing, knees bent as a towering wave broke over the ship. He scrabbled for a foothold. As the wash subsided, he made a dash for the saloon doors. Shaking water from his eyes, he stumbled dripping into the saloon. He reached for the oak table. Edged crab-like around the perimeter. Stopped halfway, fumbled for the doorframe. Found a latch, raised his fist, hammered.
No response. He waited, nursed his knuckles. Thumped again. Still nothing. Why wasn’t it opening?
Wait. What was that? Alf’s eye caught a movement. The latch? Or the wind? Alf felt a jarring thud. Seawater swirled around his ankles. He hammered again, louder. The door snicked open. Doctor Roberts peered out through the gap.
‘Bustle?’
‘My wife!’ Alf yelled.
‘Sorry?’ Doctor Roberts raised a cupped hand to his ear. ‘Can’t hear you.’
Alf leaned closer. ‘The baby’s coming.’
‘Baby! Are you mad?’
Alf staggered against the swell. Smelled sherry on Doctor Roberts’ breath. Saw him step back as if to swing the cabin door closed. Alf sprang forward, wedged his foot in the gap. ‘It’s your duty!’
‘Duty! To get myself killed! For one panicky woman.’
Doctor Roberts planted a hand on Alf’s chest. He stood firm. ‘I’m your chief cleaning constable.’
‘Yes. Worth every penny. But I can’t help you!’
He gave a shove. Alf stumbled backwards, grabbed for the table. Missed. On hands and knees, he beat the door with balled fists. Dear God, what now?
‘Doctor Roberts!’ He pounded again. Why wasn’t the door opening? He wrenched at the latch. It wouldn’t lift. Why not? Was the man holding it? He hammered. ‘Please, sir. I beg you!’
It was no use. Even as he hammered, Alf knew the door wouldn’t open.
He shivered, icy seawater swirling about his knees, aware of his clinging shirt and bruised fists. He dragged himself to his feet. What now? Go back? Apologise to Mary? Sorry love, it seems, the surgeon can’t make it after all. Dear God, what a fool. Mary had tried to warn him. But no, he’d fancied himself the surgeon’s favourite.
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