Sou’wester streaming, the bosun’s mate waited for him at the base of the quarterdeck stairs. Alf dragged himself back across the deck, the waves tugging at him with icy, persistent fingers. The mate lifted the swollen hatch planks. Alf stepped onto the ladder. The mate grasped his shoulder, held up a knife, made a sawing motion, nodded at the ropes and canvas. He swung round, pointed to a line he’d strung across the deck. It was a kindly gesture, though a waste of time. If Doctor Roberts wouldn’t come out now, he wasn’t going to come out later as the storm worsened. Alf took the knife anyway, nodded his thanks, and plunged back down into the welcome dark of steerage.
Alf peered into the gloom. Had Annie and Mary made it to the hospital? He saw a faint, rectangular seam of light at the far end of the single girls’ quarters. Yes, well done. She’d kept the lamp burning too. Alf fumbled his way aft, and heard Mary’s curses through the thin planks of the hospital door.
‘Bloody man! Look after you, he says. Then dashes out in a storm.’
‘Here, Mrs Bustle. The lower bed’s made up.’
‘Kill him. I’ll kill him. If he doesn’t drown.’
Alf winced, bunched his fingers and knocked. The door creaked opened. Annie’s white face peered out.
‘Mr Bustle …? Where’s Doctor Roberts?’
The ship lurched. Alf clutched at the doorjamb with swollen fingers and saw two sets of bunks, a stool, and Bridie bent double, puking into a hawse bucket. Bridie! What was she doing here?
‘Mr Bustle?’ Annie’s eyes flicked to the knife in his hand.
Alf swallowed, moving his lips. No sound came out. He heard a moan, pushed past Annie, and sank down on his knees beside Mary.
‘You’ve come back then, Alf?’
‘Yes.’
‘And, what can you tell me?’
‘He … he wouldn’t come love.’
‘Of course he wouldn’t come. Only you were fool enough to think otherwise.’
Alf slumped, as if a puppeteer had loosed his strings. Yes, he was a fool, a cringing ineffective fool, who couldn’t even fetch a surgeon when his wife needed one. ‘The bosun’s mate gave me a knife, Mary.’
‘What for, Alf? To cut the cord?’
‘Mrs Bustle,’ Annie pleaded. ‘This isn’t helping.’
‘Neither will the knife, Annie.’
‘You’ll be ages. You said so yourself and, if there’s an emergency, we can still fetch Doctor Roberts.’ Annie’s anxious eyes sought Alf’s. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Mr Bustle?’
‘No, she’s right. It was a fool’s errand.’
Confusion knotted Annie’s brow. Mary’s mouth hung down at the edges. Long fingers of lamplight stroked the oozing walls of the cabin. Alf swallowed, licking his lips. ‘Doctor Roberts is a difficult man, Mary.’
‘And you shouldn’t have left me.’
‘No, enough!’ Bridie thumped the hawse bucket down on the deck. ‘You can say what you like about my dad, Ma. He, well … maybe he deserved it. But Alf’s come back safely, as you wanted. That’s all that matters.’
‘You’ve picked a fine time to realise who your father is.’
‘Alf’s not my dad. I’ve told you already. But your nastiness scares me.’
‘Your ma’s scared too, lass. Fear sharpens her tongue. You’ve realised that, surely?’
She hadn’t. Realisation flooded her face. The ship pitched. Bridie moaned, clutching the bedpost. Alf grabbed the hawse bucket and shoved it under her nose. Eyes closed, she nodded her thanks. ‘You’d best be getting back to your bunk, lass.’
‘No. I’m staying.’
She looked so young, defiant, chin jutting, eyes brimming. He’d spent the entire voyage urging Bridie to grow up. But now, as he looked down into her upturned face, he found himself wanting to preserve her innocence.
‘You’re not ready for this, lass.’
‘I’m a woman now. So Ma keeps telling me.’
‘A young woman, yes, and I’m proud of the steps you’ve taken. But childbirth is violent, Bridie, gruelling.’
‘What about Annie? She’s staying.’
‘Ideally, neither of you would be here. But Annie’s had preparation. She’s been working with Doctor Roberts. Besides, it’s not her ma who’s birthing.’
‘Please, Alf. I can’t lie in my bunk not knowing.’
Chapter 23
Thunder, all around, no light, no air, the ship jarring, shuddering, crashing. Rhys gripped the end board of the bunk, his other arm wrapped around Siân. It’ll pass, he told himself, over and over, jaw clenched, teeth chattering. It’s a squall. Nothing more. No worse than the last. Or the one before. At least he had Siân. He told himself that too. Not like Alf Bustle, whose wife laboured behind closed doors.
Rhys hadn’t heard the older man return to his bunk. But he must be down there somewhere. Either that, or he’d stayed crouched outside the hospital door. That’s what Rhys would do if they took Siân away. Never mind that people glimpsed his fear. He was nothing without Siân. Nothing. Rhys’s arm tightened about her. She cupped his face in her hands.
‘Heddwch! Rhys.’
Peace? His chest was heaving like an old man with black lung. Any day, their time would come. Siân would face the violence of birth. Please God, they’d be on dry land. He’d be able to pace like a man while his child was being born.
‘Need to go to the privy,’ Siân yelled in his ear.
‘Too dangerous, cariad. You’ll have to hold.’
Siân moaned, drawing her legs up. Rhys pressed his hand to the hard ball of her belly. Duw! It was tight. How long had they been lying there? Hours. With the babe pressing down on her bladder. She was normally up to the privy three times a night.
‘Giving me pain, it is.’
‘Only worse, you’ll get, moving about.’
‘I can’t hold!’ She wriggled free, crawled to the bed end.
‘Siân, wait!’ Rhys followed, yelling from behind as she slid from their bunk. She staggered, front heavy, against the sea’s heavy swell. Rhys stepped close, shielding her from the cups, beakers and quart pots beating a tattoo along the deck. ‘Never mind the walk, Siân, twti down here.’
‘I’m not a beast.’
‘Please. It’s dangerous.’
The privy buckets were still standing, thanks to the last minute efforts of the steerage cleaners, who’d lashed them in place with stout ropes. But in the pounding seas, nothing could contain their contents. It oozed sticky about their feet.
‘Careful!’ Rhys bellowed. ‘Please, Siân, don’t slip.’
No answer. The deck pitched. Air jammed in Rhys’s throat. He spun round, arms flailing. Felt wood, hard, unyielding. A crash, like the sound of a cupboard door slamming.
‘Help! Please, Siân! Don’t leave me.’
‘Heddwch!’ Like an answering spirit she came alongside.
Rhys clung to her, sobbing in the dark. Without the urgency, she seemed to have weakened. More than once Rhys had to stop her from falling. Arm about her waist, he groped from bed to bed. Almost there. Crist, what was wrong? She felt floppy as a cloth doll.
‘I’m fine,’ Siân answered his thoughts.
The ship reeled and Rhys stumbled, scrabbled for a handhold. Managed to regain his balance. Palms sweaty, he grabbed the bedpost. Ducked. A pot struck his back. He took a firm hold of Siân.
‘Ready? I’ll hoist you onto the bench.’ He grasped her about the waist. ‘Almost there. Can you step up, do you think?’
She nodded and braced.
‘Right, on the count of three. Un, dau—’
A lurch. Rhys’s hands slipped. He clutched at her bodice, felt it rip. The ship tipped. Iesu, it was dark. Down on one knee, Rhys groped for the bench. Missed.
‘Siân! Where are you?’
No answer. Rhys lunged, arms wild, groping. He found her rammed up against the table. Breath ragged, soaked. He pulled her close, hands desperate about her arms, her belly, her face. She whimpered, bent double. Terror squeezed
his chest.
‘Siân? Are you hurt? Please, Siân, speak to me!’
No words. Only groans.
‘Up now, cariad. Let’s get you onto the bed.’
Rhys fumbled for the bench, hooked her under her armpits, and dragged her across the narrow companion way. Siân cried out, hands clutching her belly.
‘Crist! What’s happening? Tell me.’
‘Nothing. I’m fine.’
Rhys rocked and soothed, willing her to be unhurt. He smelled dirt, and fear, felt a warm moisture oozing through her skirts. ‘Take you to Doctor Roberts, shall I? Have him check? Close by, he is, Siân. In the hospital.’
‘No,’ she panted. ‘I’ll not be leaving you at the height of a storm.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, if you’re hurt.’
‘Heddwch! Rhys. We’ll have hours before this baby is born.’
Chapter 24
Alf clung to the end board of the top bunk. He no longer heard the ship’s bells above the hammer of the sea. The growl of his stomach told him they had gone long past dinner hour. In the bunk opposite, Annie lay pressed against Mary. Had she slept? How could she, with Mary writhing like an eel on the bed beside her? Maybe he should fetch one of the other women. No, it’d be hours before anyone was well enough to stir. Look how sick Bridie was. She’d scarcely moved since crawling into the bunk beneath. Though every so often a sob told him her rest wasn’t easy.
Alf saw Mary’s jerk of pain, her fingernails biting into Annie’s arm. After what seemed like an age, she relaxed, panting.
One, two, three … Alf resumed his steady count.
He couldn’t give an exact number, but the pains seemed to be coming before he reached four hundred, each time. Was that close? He had no way of knowing. Please God, it meant they had a few more hours. At least until the storm eased.
How long had Annie been lying in Mary’s bunk? She must be worn out. Meanwhile, he was doing nothing. Alf grasped the bed end and swung down onto the deck. His breath caught. Icy seawater seeped through his boots.
‘How are you, Mary? All right?’
‘No, your baby’s tearing me apart.’
‘Sorry, love.’
‘It’s a bit late for sorry,’ Mary bawled back at him. ‘You should have thought about that nine months ago. But I’ll tell you one thing, Alf Bustle. You can keep your trousers on in future, do you hear me?’
Alf stiffened, heat flushing his cheeks. ‘Hush, Mary. The girls are listening.’
‘They can listen all they like. If you so much as come near me in the future, I’ll cut your bits off!’
Alf grimaced, turning to Annie. ‘Sorry, lass. You shouldn’t have to hear this.’
Mary gave a low moan. Annie massaged her arching back. As Mary flopped panting onto the bed, Alf mouthed the words ‘how long?’ over the top of her head.
Annie shrugged, mouthed ‘don’t know’ back at him.
‘No, need to whisper, you two. I can see your lips moving. You’ll not miss it, Alf. I can assure you. That’s when I’ll really be cursing.’
Chapter 25
Rhys woke with a start. Dark, so dark, a weight pressing down on him. He heard a sob. His own? He fumbled beneath the bed covers. Siân? Still there! Thank God, she was still with him. Come morning they’d take her away. Her pains were coming hard and fast. The mattress beneath them was now sodden. The warm metallic scent oddly familiar. She tensed, hands scrabbling among the blankets. Gasped, panted, fell back onto the mattress.
Rhys moved in close. ‘How is it with you, cariad?’
‘Fine. Still plenty of time.’
Fine. She was fine. Rhys let his breath go with a sigh. She knew, of course. She’d seen birthing often enough, with Rhonwen.
Coward! A mocking voice in his head. Only you, she’s thinking of!
Rhys rocked her gently. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Help, you’re needing, is it?’
‘Hold me,’ she whispered. ‘Only hold me, Rhys.’
He wriggled close, gathering her spoon fashion. ‘Not long now, you’ll be Mam. I’ll be Tad.’
Dear God, where had the years gone? Only yesterday they were children—dancing in hay meadows, tickling trout in sunlit pools, running home with them slippery and fresh for Rhonwen to cook. Now, that same laughing girl would bear his child.
‘I’ve a fear on me, Rhys.’
He was not surprised, with the pains coming often.
‘Time for the hospital, is it?’
‘Not the pains I’m worried about.’
‘What then, cariad?’
‘I can see things in the dark.’
‘Things? What kind of things?’
‘Canwyll corff, Rhys. Coming for me.’
‘No!’ The hairs on the back of his neck rose. ‘No corpse candles at sea, Siân.’
‘I can see them, Rhys. Blue for me. Yellow for a child.’
He grabbed her arms, shook her hard. ‘I can’t see them, Siân. Not real, are they, if I can’t see them? Only phantoms?’
Iesu, who was he to speak of phantoms? He who’d clung to her, sobbing in the dark.
‘A sign, it is, Rhys. You have to believe to see a sign.’
‘Then don’t! Not for a minute!’
He dragged her upright. Her head lolled. Crist, when had she grown so weak? He pushed the hair back from her face. Leaned his forehead against hers.
‘Listen, cariad, we’re going to be brave now. Strong. No more arguments, do you hear me? No more pandering to my stupid fears. We’re going to climb from this bunk, walk along the deck, and leave you in the hospital. You’ll be safe there, with Annie and Mary. Nothing to harm you.’
Chapter 26
Blood. Bridie dreamed of blood, rising, oozing, pulsing. She reached out, tried to cup it in her hands. No, she couldn’t move. A giant claw held her, dashing, crashing, smashing her against the face of the deep. She heard a wail, Ma calling down curses. Fear! All fear. Why hadn’t she realised? Like a whetstone to Ma’s tongue. Fear for Bridie’s future, fear for Alf, fear for this baby crushed in the grip of a storm.
No! She lurched upright. They couldn’t lose another baby.
Her head swirled. She moaned, sank back down onto the bed. What time was it? How many hours had she been huddled in this bunk? She stretched her cramped legs, tried again to raise her head. The room swam. She blinked, tried to bring the cabin into focus. Saw Ma’s head rise in the bunk opposite.
‘Am I alive, Alf? Or dead?’
‘You’re alive, Mary love, and I’m still here.’
Bridie heard words, not clear, but definitely words. Her ears pricked to a subtle change in sounds. The storm still raged. It wasn’t over by a long shot. But the wind had dropped to a child’s keening wail. Bridie raised herself on one elbow and listened for signs of life beyond the hospital door. Nothing. No scuffle of feet, or cries of alarm, everyone still tethered to their bunks.
She watched Alf clamber from Ma’s bed. Heard the slosh of his feet, a sigh, his warm yellow stream hitting the pot. He stooped, replacing the lid, and buttoned his trousers. Annie’s tousled head popped up in the top bunk opposite.
‘Sorry, lass. I didn’t mean to wake you.’
Annie blinked, her bleary-eyes flitting from Alf to the flooded the cabin. She jerked upright.
‘Mrs Bustle? How is she?’
‘Not good, lass. The pains are coming two hundred and fifty beats apart. But the storm’s easing.’
Annie yawned and pushed back the covers. She wound her hair into a loose coil, fastened her cap, and climbed down from the bunk.
‘Enough, do you think?’
‘Not yet. But soon, perhaps—’
Alf staggered, grabbing the bed end as a gust of wind buffeted the ship. Bridie heard a harsh, tearing sound, followed by an almighty thump. Annie reeled, staggering at the impact.
‘Goodness! What was that?’
Alf grimaced, shaking his head. ‘Sounds like a mast, or one of the yards coming down.
The deck will be a mess of cables.’
Annie stepped forward, touched a finger to his arm. ‘We’ll manage, Mr Bustle. It’s not her first time.’
Alf shook his head. ‘I’d rather it wasn’t her last either, Annie.’
As if on cue, Ma began to moan through clenched teeth. ‘I’m going to die. I’m bloody well going to die before this baby is born.’
Annie squatted down, grasping her hand.
‘You won’t die, Mrs Bustle. I promise.’
Ma moaned, tension roping her throat. Alf clenched his fists. Bridie swung her feet out onto the watery deck. Alf stooped, wiping the sweat from Ma’s brow.
‘Not long now, love.’
Ma glared back at him, her eyes slits. ‘You’re not the surgeon, Alf. Or a midwife. So, I don’t suppose you’ve got any idea.’
Alf swallowed, licking his lips. ‘Isn’t it normally like this then, love?’
‘No.’ A tear slid down Ma’s cheek. ‘It’s worse, much worse.’
Bridie swayed, gripping the bunk. What if Ma was right? They had a bucket and towels, the mate’s knife. But neither Alf nor Annie knew anything about birthing.
As if reading her thoughts, Alf’s gaze found the mate’s knife lying on the floor. Bridie stooped, grabbed the knife, and lurched towards him. ‘Alf, you have to go, now. She might be dying.’
A rap on the hospital door. Annie jumped, her hand striking the lamp. Ma gave a sob. The room spun. Bridie lunged for the door. She heard raised voices, an urgent pebble of a fist. Dragging the door across the water-logged deck, she halted, mid step, arrested by the tableau confronting her.
‘What? What is it?’ Ma broke the silence.
Rhys stood in the doorway, supporting Siân’s sagging form. The Welsh girl’s skirts were sodden. Blood-red rivulets trickled over her bare feet, the water around them a ruddy swirl. Rhys’s gaze darted about the cabin.
The Tides Between Page 23