The Tides Between

by Elizabeth Jane Corbett

  ‘Ma! What are you doing up? Doctor Roberts said you were to rest.’

  ‘I won’t stay long. I only came out to pay my respects.’

  ‘Rhys isn’t here.’ Bridie patted the bench. ‘Sit down. You shouldn’t be on your feet.’

  ‘My feet are fine. But your concern is appreciated. You’ll be wanting to see your brother, I expect?’

  The baby? Did she want to see the baby? How could she possibly with Siân so recently dead? How could she ever take pleasure in anything ever again?

  Ma held out the tiny swaddled form. ‘Careful, now. Mind you support his head.’

  Pam patted the bench, sliding a mug across as Ma handed the baby to Bridie. Arms wooden, her back mast-straight, Bridie nudged the shawl from the baby’s face. A pair of dark, barely focused eyes stared back at her. A face so tiny and perfect, from its porcelain fine skin, to its delicately sculptured nose and pursed pink lips.

  ‘He’s handsome.’ Pam looked on admiringly.

  Pam was itching to have a hold. Strangely, Bridie had no desire to hand the baby over. She hugged him close, marvelling at his sweet, warm, newborn baby scent.

  ‘Does he look like Bridie?’ Pam asked.

  Ma jerked, as if caught off-guard, her tea sloshing onto the table. ‘Well, yes, of course. In the … well, the shape of his forehead.’

  Interesting. Bridie eased the shawl back further, touching a finger to the baby’s forehead. He arched his back, a tiny wishbone-thin arm escaping. His shock of downy black hair brought a smile to Bridie’s lips.

  ‘He’s lovely, Ma. Like a little pixie. Did I have this much hair when I was born?’

  ‘No. Yours was thinner.’

  ‘And curly?’

  ‘Course it was curly.’ Ma’s brow knit with annoyance. ‘It’s curly now, isn’t it?’

  ‘I might have changed.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake. You’ve seen babies before. Use your common sense.’

  Fortunately, at that moment, Pam intervened. ‘Leave it now, Bridie. Your ma’s tired.’ She whipped the baby from Bridie’s arms and thrust him at Alf. ‘Here, proud father. Have a hold.’

  Alf’s hands closed around the baby, his face pinking with pleasure as a miniature finger curled around his thumb. He’d worked so hard to make the funeral a success, his joy at being a father overshadowed by a genuine concern for Rhys. He deserved a chance to revel in the baby’s possessive gesture.

  Pam leaned forward, clucking like a mother hen. ‘You must be proud. Have you thought of a name yet?’

  ‘Alfred or John,’ Ma answered on Alf’s behalf.

  ‘Alfred’s nice. Who is John for then?’

  ‘Oh, John was my father. But Alf isn’t keen. He wants to give the baby a foreign name.’

  Well, whoever would have imagined? Bridie stared open-mouthed at Alf. He looked the same—big blunt hands, round earnest face but … a foreign name? Where would he have got such a novel idea?

  She wasn’t the only one surprised. Head to one side, Pam’s nose wrinkled.

  ‘Would a foreign name go with Bustle, do you think?’

  At this point, Alf took a strong interest in the baby. Head lowered, he stroked the tiny curled fist, the back of his neck turning a ruddy pink. Bridie wasn’t the only one to notice his sudden discomfort. From across the table, Tom Griggs crowed his delight.

  ‘Come on, spill the beans. Is it Pierre? Jose? Or Alfonso?’

  ‘Nothing that foolish.’

  ‘A Welsh name,’ Ma blurted out. ‘He wants to give the baby a Welsh name. Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous?’

  For a big man, Alf looked suddenly very small. Head bowed, shoulders hunched, shame burned the space between his hairline and kerchief.

  Tom recovered first. He nodded, approving. ‘Not bad, Alf. Quite considerate really.’

  ‘Yes, well, it’s only an idea, and, as Mary said, probably ridiculous.’

  ‘No!’ A curious warmth flooded Bridie’s chest. Alf was a good man, big, dull, boring and definitely annoying, but kind, and always good. Rhys had tried to tell her that day on the main deck. She’d refused to listen. But now, for the first time, she saw it clearly. ‘We don’t have to give the baby a Welsh proper name, though do we?’

  ‘See!’ Ma turned to Alf, triumphant. ‘Even Bridie agrees with me.’

  ‘No, Ma. I don’t agree. It’s a kindness and, I think, Rhys will appreciate the gesture.’ She stopped, heat flushing her cheeks. ‘But … I think, perhaps, we should call the baby Alfred, officially, you know … because of who his father is. But he could have a Welsh pet name—that would honour Siân’s memory.’

  Alf coughed, clearing his throat. ‘That’s kind of you, lass. Is there a name you had in mind?’

  Bridie paused, chewing her lip. ‘We don’t have to decide straight away. But Dylan is a name from a legend. It means Son of the Sea.’

  ‘Dylan ain’t bad.’ Tom chuckled. ‘And it’s darn easier to say than Llewelyn or Gruffydd.’

  ‘Alfred John Dylan.’ Ma swallowed, blinking back tears. ‘It’s been awful, Alf. Truly. I’d hoped, in time, to forget.’

  ‘I don’t think we can, love. But I hope, one day, to remember with less pain than this.’

  ‘More tea?’ Pam’s sensible voice broke the silence.

  ‘No, thanks. I’d best be getting back to the hospital. This young man will need a feed soon.’

  Alf rose. ‘I’ll come with you, love.’

  ‘Tom. Pam.’ Ma nodded to each one in turn. ‘Give my regards to Rhys. Tell him I’m sorry for … well, sorry about everything.’

  ‘Where is Rhys, anyway?’ Tom rose, scanning the deck.

  Alf pointed. ‘Last I saw, he was down with the single men. But look, here’s Harvey Rolf. Why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘Morning all.’ Mr Rolf gave a broad, good-natured smile. ‘So this is the latest addition.’ He leaned over, peering. ‘Lord, he’s puny, isn’t he?’

  ‘No.’ Ma bristled. ‘He’s a good size.’

  ‘Well, of course, he is. No offence, Mrs Bustle. Only, it’s funny to think of starting out so small.’ He paused, as if searching for words. ‘Not him, I mean, me.’

  Bridie eyed Mr Rolf’s solid, tree trunk form. It was hard to imagine him as anything other than substantial, let alone swathed in lacy shawls.

  He beamed round at them, his face radiating good intent. ‘What is it you’re wanting to ask me, Alf?’

  ‘Only wondering where Rhys might be.’

  ‘Down our end.’ Mr Rolf jerked his head. ‘Funny you should ask. I’ve come to get his things.’

  ‘His things.’ Alf blinked. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘He’s being moved, isn’t he? Down with the single men.’

  ‘But … we’re almost in Port Phillip!’

  Mr Rolf shook his head. ‘Odd, I know. It’s Doctor Roberts’ orders. As you know, Alf, he’s a hard man to cross and, just between you and me, he doesn’t seem to like Rhys.’

  ‘Even so, he must have given you a reason.’

  ‘Well now, let me think. “Damn Welshman … sneaking about the ship … can’t have him near Miss Bowles.” I think that pretty much sums it up.’

  ‘Annie?’ Alf’s brows rose. ‘What’s she got to do with this?’

  Mr Rolf shrugged. ‘He’s not married anymore, is he?’

  Alf shook his head. Bridie wasn’t surprised. How could anyone be so dense? To move someone’s belongings without asking their permission! Maybe Mr Rolf did indeed have nothing but sawdust between his ears. Though Alf had grasped the awfulness of the situation.

  ‘I suggest you go back and speak to him then, Harvey. Tell him if he wants to move berths, he can collect his own belongings.’

  ‘Well, now.’ Mr Rolf ducked his head. ‘I won’t argue with you, on principle, Alf. It’s Rhys’s business to organise his luggage but—’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Well … he can’t, can he?’

  Alf’s eyes narrowed. ‘Wh
y ever not?’

  Mr Rolf shrugged. ‘I’d hoped not to mention it with the ladies present. But, well, seeing as you’re insistent. I don’t mind admitting, he’s … legless.’

  ‘Legless?’

  ‘Blind. Drunk. Snookered. Whatever you want to call it.’

  ‘Rhys? Drunk! I don’t believe it.’

  ‘I’m not joking, Alf. Some of the single men pooled their wine rations, you know, thinking he might want to drown his sorrows. Seems they were right.’ Mr Rolf gestured along the deck. ‘He can’t even stand at the moment.’

  Bridie rose, her heart punching like a fist. Steerage was gloomy, as always. Packed with bodies. All along the table, steaming mugs and teapots fogged up the moist, dank atmosphere. Beyond them, she could just make out Rhys’s limp form. Suddenly, she wanted to run, to scream, to lash out and hit. To do anything other than watch Rhys being heaved bodily onto the bed.

  ‘But … Rhys hasn’t shown any tendency for drunkenness.’

  ‘These handsome dreamers are all the same.’ Ma’s voice clotted with spite. ‘Too weak and fanciful for their own good.’

  ‘Come now. He’s lost a wife and child. Don’t be too hard on him.’

  Too hard!

  Memories clutched at Bridie’s throat. She remembered her dad’s stumbling gait on the stairs, the whisky on his breath, Ma’s nagging, his drunken-all-day shape on the bed. Now it was happening again, to Rhys, her friend with soft dark eyes, who’d tried to rescue a fairy. Who’d shared his secrets and taught her people were complex. Who’d understood the importance of her stories. That same, musical, magical Rhys, was now drunk, as her dad had been so many times.

  Chapter 33

  Rhys was drowning his sorrows, only once. It wouldn’t happen again, Bridie told herself as she lay awake in her bunk that night. He’d shown no tendency for drunkenness. Alf had said so and, for the second time in her life, Bridie agreed with him. She’d wake tomorrow and find everything back to normal.

  Well, as normal as it could be with Siân dead.

  Then why did the words too fanciful for their own good coil like a snake in her head?

  Bridie didn’t see Rhys the next morning, or during the long drizzling afternoon that followed. She presumed he was sitting behind the horse box, which was a good sign, surely? Seeking space and privacy to settle his thoughts? But when she peered along the deck later that evening and saw a row of mugs lined up in front of him, she knew he was drowning his sorrows again.

  Was Ma right? Did all handsome dreamers lack spine? Were they all destined to struggle and give up on life? Siân hadn’t thought so; she’d seen beyond Rhys’s fear to the love and courage that had motivated him to emigrate. But what about now, when Siân was gone? Who would pull Rhys back from the brink?

  When he didn’t climb down the ladder for dinner the following noon, Bridie slipped a ship’s biscuit into her pinafore pocket. He needed someone to look after him and feed him, as Siân would have done. Someone who knew of his guilt and fear and all he hoped to achieve from the voyage to tell him drowning his sorrows was not the solution.

  At the narrow entrance between the longboats, Bridie paused, her heart banging like a drum in her chest. She heard dogs whine, their chains dragging against the kennel, the rhythmic grate of the carpenter’s saw further along the deck. But no sound from Rhys.

  She crawled into the narrow space.

  Eyes tight, face buried in the crook of his arm, Rhys’s body shuddered as if caught in the grip of an inner scream. The moment was so intense, so private, she gasped, jerking backwards. Her shoulder hit the longboat. Dogs yapped, a cacophony of clucking hens. Rhys’s head rose. His eyes so dead and dull, they might have belonged to someone else.

  Bridie froze, staring at him open mouthed. A biscuit? Why on earth would he need a biscuit? How could he possibly eat when he was being torn apart from within?

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I’m here, if you need to talk. I wanted you to know, in case you’d forgotten.’

  Silence. His gaze blank, uncomprehending. Did he even know who she was?

  ‘Rhys? Can you hear me?’

  ‘Yes.’ One word, dry, husky, as if dragged from his throat.

  She swallowed, the biscuit crumbling in her hand. ‘I’ll wait, shall I? Until you’re ready?’

  ‘Yes, please. I’ve no desire for company.’

  Huddled at the base of the main mast, Bridie trained her eyes on the longboats, lest Rhys change his mind and come looking for her. She heard the heave and chant of the sailors lifting the newly repaired yard arm into place, watched the ship’s officers squinting up at the leaden sky. But no matter how they adjusted their sextant and quadrant, the noonday sun would not grace them with its presence. At night, when grey gave way to a starless black, Bridie saw another round of drinks lined up in front of Rhys.

  She ached to hold baby Dylan, to feel his soft warm skin against hers, to marvel at his sweet newborn baby scent. To remind herself that one good thing had come out of the voyage. But Doctor Roberts said Ma needed rest. Only Alf was allowed to visit her in the hospital. Alf was kind. Bridie could admit that now. He brought Dylan out to her more than once. But each time Bridie took him in her arms, tears slid down her cheeks. What kind of world awaited her baby brother? A world in which dreams and wishes and fairy tales were nonsense, where only the strong had a chance of survival. What if this baby wasn’t one of them? What if, one by one, all the people she loved were taken?

  At twilight, four days after the funeral, Lady Sophia finally approached the entrance to Port Phillip Bay. It was too dark to enter at dusk. Strong tides guarded the entrance, shoals to navigate in a treacherous stretch of water called ‘The Rip’. Despite this, people crowded the bulwarks, hoping for signs of life on the foreign shore. Bridie stood apart, listening to the whispers of the jostling crowd.

  ‘Wait! What was that? Movement! Was that movement?’

  Yes, there it was, she saw it too—sparks, followed by more sparks, a flame widening, lengthening, licking the dark. All around her, people gasped and pointed. Bridie stood in silence, her eyes fixed on the shore. She felt too numb for wonder, too numb for anything.

  ‘It’s a signal,’ Alf said, stepping alongside. ‘Showing us where to heave-to for the night.’

  ‘How do they know we’re here?’

  ‘There’s a pilot station with a lookout inside the heads. It’s manned around the clock.’

  Bridie nodded, fixing her eyes on the shore. She saw figures moving about on the beach—one, two, maybe three shadow puppets against a bright, backdrop of fire. Others had seen them too. They laughed, standing on tiptoes, pointing. One of the shadow men took a branch from the fire and waved it above his head.

  ‘Ahoy!’ The sound came drifting out across water.

  Bridie shivered, pulling her shawl tight. Like a hearth fire banked up for the night, or a candle left on the windowsill for weary travellers, the beacon on the beach would have been perfect, if not for losing Siân. The sheer hopelessness of her friend’s death washed over her anew. There was no blaze strong enough to heat the chill at her core. Her friend was gone. Dead. Taking her kindness and her magic, her fierce love for Rhys. Yet as Bridie stood beside Alf in the stiff evening breeze, she knew it wasn’t Siân’s absence so much as Rhys’s withdrawal that was making her heart freeze.

  Bridie didn’t know how long she stood on the windy main deck. Only that tired and chilled others drifted below. She didn’t follow, preferring the wind and waves to the close dark warmth of steerage. What was it about the sea that called to her tonight? The choppy uncertainty of Bass Strait, or the wild entrance they called The Rip? Maybe the human hand of fire reaching out to them in the dark? Whatever the reason, Alf stayed alongside, like a rock in the ocean, sharing her grief.

  ‘It’s a difficult time,’ he said, breaking the silence. ‘I won’t pretend to know how you feel. But … he’ll be all right. Rhys, I mean.’

  Bridie nodded, sorrow clogging her throat.
She didn’t want to talk to Alf, even if he was kind. He had no way to make things better, nothing beyond the bleak lessons Siân’s death had taught her.

  Alf shuffled, looking down at his feet. ‘I know you set a great store by Siân.’

  ‘She was beautiful, like a fairy.’

  ‘Yes, she was.’

  And then, because she wasn’t sure, not really, and she did so want to be, she turned slowly to face him. ‘Do you really think so? About Rhys?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘You don’t think …?’ She stopped, swallowed, the ache in her throat pulling her eyes tight. ‘You aren’t worried about, you know, about the drinking?’

  ‘I’m surprised. I won’t lie to you. But I think he’ll pull clear.’

  ‘What if it’s, you know … like Ma said, because he’s a dreamer?’

  ‘The truth is, I don’t know what will happen to Rhys. Neither does your ma. But he’s young, healthy. He can make a fresh start.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he wants to.’ The knowledge stabbed Bridie anew. ‘He only emigrated because of Siân and the baby.’

  ‘Yes. It’s a crushing blow.’

  ‘What if it’s too much for him? What if he doesn’t cope? He’ll be alone. In a strange land. With no one to talk to. Or tell him stories. No one to even nag him like Ma did my dad.’ She stopped, swiped at her eyes. Saw the awkward heft of Alf’s shoulder, the nervous swallow of his throat.

  Maybe it was too much for him, despite his kindness. Maybe she’d been right about Alf all along. Maybe he was stupid—and here was no one in the whole world who could answer her questions.

  ‘Your ma loved your dad, Bridie.’

  ‘Really! And he loved her too, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, I think he did.’

  ‘He picked a funny way of showing it then, didn’t he? Letting us go cold and hungry, watching Ma pawn our belongings. He might have taken a job, any job, if only to ease our suffering. But he didn’t. Not once. Not even for me.’

  ‘Things weren’t always that bad, lass.’

  ‘Yes, well, thanks to you and Ma, that’s how I remember them.’