The Tides Between

by Elizabeth Jane Corbett

  ‘Your dad was a handsome man. Clever too. When I first met your ma, I thought her the happiest girl in the world. She waited up for him every night. Did you know that? No matter how late he came home from the theatre, I heard her tripping down the stairs.’

  ‘Well, it didn’t end that way, did it? I was there too, remember? I heard their arguments. Saw everything you did for Ma. Before, and after my dad died.’

  ‘No, lass, you’ve got it wrong.’

  ‘I haven’t, Alf. Admit it! You and your boxes of market greens.’

  ‘I was there, Bridie. I’ll admit that much. But … you have to understand. Your ma and Archie were beautiful. Happy. Not unlike Rhys and Siân. When things went wrong, I only wanted to help. I never courted your ma’s affection. Or imagined she would see me differently. I’m too big, dull and stupid remember?’

  ‘Well, she did see you differently, didn’t she? Despite your ever-so-good intentions. That’s why she gave up on him.’

  ‘No, lass. They both gave up.’

  ‘Ma gave up first.’

  ‘There are no easy black and white answers, Bridie, despite your ma’s claims. Or neat fairy tale endings. Life is messy and uncertain. That’s why we feared for you, tried to curb your fancies. Maybe we got that wrong. But I do know one thing: your dad loved you, and your ma, and, I think, in his own strange way, he thought he was doing the best for you that Christmas night.’

  ‘His best! To go out and kill himself!’

  ‘He was dying, lass. You know that, don’t you? He’d been coughing up blood for years. Maybe it was losing the babies early on. Or the thought of leaving you and your ma alone, without support. Maybe it was, as you say, partly my fault. The truth is, no one knows why Archie Stewart gave up on life. Only that somewhere, at some point, something inside him broke and no one, not you, not him, nor even your ma, was able to fix it.’

  ‘But … he could have tried harder.’

  ‘He did try, Bridie.’

  ‘Truly? As hard as he could?’ She looked up, searching his earnest face. ‘You’re not lying, just to make me feel better?’

  ‘I would never lie to you, Bridie.’

  She shivered, fury draining out of her like the blood from a beast. He was dying. Her dad was dying. Why hadn’t she seen this before? It made him sad. So sad, he’d given up on life. But before he gave up, in the beginning, when he’d got first got sick, he’d tried hard, as hard as he could, because he loved her. Even after he’d given up, even if he had laid down in the icy street, he’d still loved her. She turned, eyes blind, felt the solid, wrap of Alf’s arms, his big, clumsy hand patting her back.

  ‘That’s it, lass. Have a good cry.’

  Which was awkward, and soppy, and made her cry even harder. For Rhys and the road before him, for Siân, who’d lived under a curse, for Ma, who’d once been happy, and for Alf—yes, even poor old Alf, who’d never meant to spoil things. But mostly she cried for her dad, whose best wasn’t good enough. Knowing there were no easy answers, only love and people who were complex, while Alf held her fast above the treacherous waters of Bass Strait.

  She stood for an age in Alf’s arms, her tears wetting his shirt and the moon laying its silvery tracks across the water, aware of his solid warmth, the chill of the night beyond her. Eventually, she sniffed, dabbing her eyes with a hanky.

  ‘Sorry. Your shirt’s soaked.’

  ‘Never mind, I’ve got a spare one between decks.’

  She stepped back, eyeing him sideways, unsure how to walk in this new, uncharted territory. ‘I never wanted to be friends.’

  ‘I gathered that, Bridie.’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure how to begin, if I’m honest.’

  ‘The truth is a good place to start.’

  ‘Of course, Alf-the-honest. Well, I like that about you and … let’s face it,’ she pulled a wry face, ‘I’ve got no one else.’

  ‘Rhys is still your friend, lass.’

  ‘No. Friends talk to each other.’

  ‘He’s lost, Bridie, heart sore. Give him a chance.’

  ‘A chance.’ Head to one side, she smiled up at him. ‘Funny, he said that about you, once.’

  ‘And … what did you do?’

  ‘I ignored him.’

  ‘Then don’t ignore him again, lass.’

  Chapter 34

  Supper was finished by the time Bridie and Alf clambered down the ladder into steerage. All along the deck, people cleared mugs from the tables and stowed cards, maps, and letter books for the night. Bridie joined the privy queue, only tiptoeing back to her bunk as the carpenter turned down the lamps. She loosed her bodice, slipped out of her skirts, and slid into bed beside Annie.

  But her thoughts wouldn’t stop churning. Her crackling mattress joined the chorus of after-dark snoring. She heard the watch change on the deck above, the half hourly bells tolling midnight. She sat up, fumbled for her notebook, and lay back down again, hugging it to her chest.

  Fancy Alf understanding about her dad. He was right. She had to talk to Rhys. After all they’d been through, they couldn’t part in silence. But where to begin? And without Siân’s help? The Welsh girl had been their link, reaching out to her even when Rhys didn’t have the strength. Now she’d have to forge her own connection and, with Rhys so sad and distant, she didn’t how to approach him.

  With your notebook—and stories. The answer came in Siân’s tinkling fairy voice.

  Stories? Of course! Bridie sat up, gathered her writing materials, and wriggled along the bed. The carpenter always left a lamp burning over the hatchway. Dimmed, so as not to disturb people’s rest, but bright enough for her purposes. She tiptoed along the deck, found a hazy circle of light, and slid onto the bench.

  She opened her notebook, eyes snagging on her dad’s message.

  When night is dark and the wind blows hard and shadows overwhelm you—there are always stories. Write them down and think of me and how I have ever loved you.

  Was it true? Had stories helped him right to the end? Or were they like love against typhus? Something that helped, sometimes, but not always, with life so big and complex that people died, no matter how much they wanted to stay alive? Bridie couldn’t answer those questions. At least, not in any way she could have explained. But as she leafed the notebook’s pages and saw story after carefully penned story, the words how I have ever loved you ran like a refrain in her head. Beneath it, ever so faintly, she fancied she heard the echo of her dad’s Scottish bur again.

  There were five blank pages at the end of the notebook, enough for one final story. But … where to begin? With Rhys? Or Siân?

  Rhys had come first, that evening on the Thames.

  Once upon a time, she wrote, in the gathering dusk on an emigrant vessel.

  She stopped, chewed her pencil. Once upon a time—could she write that even though this wasn’t a fairy tale? Yes, why not? The evening had been magical. Her friendship with Rhys and Siân had been magical. She blinked, pressing her lips together. She mustn’t cry. She had to think clearly. No time for rough copies, or second drafts. She must write freely, as the words came into her head.

  She started with ‘Ar Hyd y Nos’. Remembering how she’d seen a struggle in the lines of Rhys’s body that went beyond the music, though she hadn’t understood it at the time. Had told him about the lament for a fairy who was dying and found herself not waiting to appear foolish before him. How she needn’t have worried because he’d understood—about everything. How kind Siân had been during the seasickness, how she’d longed for their friendship, longed for it so much that she’d pretended to tie her bootlaces in front of them. Not understanding their troubles, or how they might be able to help her. Until Rhys had stood up for her and told the story of Taliesin.

  She’d known then that he valued her friendship. It had given her the courage to crawl behind the horsebox and find him. She wrote about the web of lies and half-truths she’d told him. How even, despite them, he seemed to be able to read
her mind. The way she’d treasured their moments together. How shocked she’d been at the Dic Penderyn story. How it had altered the weave of her memories, altered them so much that she’d lost the courage to trust him. How she’d carried her burdens all through the horrors of the typhus epidemic, only to find he and Siân also harboured secrets.

  She wrote about how he’d tried to help her with Alf, the magic they’d woven between them. How, even then, she couldn’t find the courage to trust him. Though, she almost did, early Christmas morning, until the storm came and ripped her chance away. About how much she’d loved Siân, thought her the most beautiful girl in the world, with Rhys the handsome prince who’d tried to rescue her. How much she’d wanted him to succeed. How, even now, she wanted to help him, despite the shock of his drunkenness. How frightened she was for his future. How icy the world felt without him, until Alf had encouraged her to speak, though she couldn’t think how to begin, apart from writing this story—the story of their friendship. Which she wasn’t even sure he would welcome. Though she had to try because she loved him, more than anyone else in the world.

  Bridie stopped, shocked. What had she written? She scanned the page. The words love swam before her eyes, followed more than anyone else in the world. Truly? Had she written that? She shivered, glancing about. Whatever did it mean?

  She loved Rhys. Of course, she did. She’d loved Siân too. Though she’d never dreamed the two loves might be different. They were. She saw that now, completely different. She’d never made eyes at Rhys. Or thought about him like … well, like Hilary and Eunice and the other single girls. But from that first night in Deptford, his words, his voice, even his troubles, had drawn her like a lodestone. Was that love, like Alf’s love for Ma? Something that had grown unknowing? And had Siân suspected? Is that what she’d meant by you are part of Rhys’s journey now?

  So much confusion, so many questions. Bridie pocketed her pencil and crept back along the deck. Saw dawn’s palette leaching through the scuttles, heard the yards creak, the scrape of an anchor chain. Soon the carpenter would climb down the ladder and launch the day on its course. She’d have to face Alf, the friend she never wanted, who was nowhere near as stupid as she’d imagined. See questions in his big, blue eyes, the kernel of an understanding. Meanwhile, her skin would be tight and her heart pitter-pattering as she tried to make sense of these strange new realisations.

  Chapter 35

  No one commented on Bridie’s tired, white face at breakfast the following morning. Or the way she sat, hugging her notebook to her chest. Once the dishes were washed and stacked, the steerage cleaners set about their duties. Everyone else swarmed up the ladder and onto the main deck to await the arrival of the pilot.

  Bridie went in search of Ma and baby Dylan.

  That Ma wanted to go on deck and greet the pilot was a good sign. She’d been so sad since Dylan’s birth, her eyes constantly red with weeping. Bridie found this odd. When did Ma build up such an affection for Siân? She’d spent most of the voyage trying to keep Bridie away from the Welsh girl. Still, maybe giving birth next to a dying women changed things?

  It had certainly altered Doctor Roberts’ behaviour. Over the last few days, he’d paid Ma frequent hospital visits, and although Ma was now strong enough to venture out on occasions, he’d kept visitors to a minimum. Bridie was surprised, on reaching the hospital, to find its door ajar. She heard a raised voice within. Not Ma’s or Doctor Roberts’, but Annie’s, and from its pitched timbre her friend was crying again.

  ‘I thought there was something wrong, Mrs Bustle … with the back of the baby’s head.’

  ‘Well, as you can see, the baby is fine.’

  ‘Yes, but in the hospital. Mrs Scarcebrook’s hand flew to her mouth, as if, well … as if she’d seen something dreadful.’

  Dreadful! Their baby? No, Dylan was perfect. How could Annie say such a thing? She’d so wanted to attend a birth, had apologised over and over to Rhys. Did she think she could have prevented his baby’s death?

  ‘Mrs Scarcebrook is a fool, Annie. Even without the bucket of blood, she’d have needed her smelling salts.’

  ‘Please, Mrs Bustle. I’m only trying to help you.’

  ‘Then go away. Do you hear me? Leave us alone! It’s too late to change things.’

  Bridie lifted the latch as Ma’s calm started to dissolve. Before she had a chance to step through the door, fingers pincered her shoulder. Bridie stumbled backwards, dropping her notebook as Doctor Roberts strode into the cabin.

  ‘Miss Bowles. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Visiting.’

  ‘And upsetting my patient.’

  ‘Not intentionally.’

  ‘Your intentions are immaterial. The effect is all I see. Here, Mrs Bustle, do sit down.’ He patted the nearby stool. ‘Yes, that’s right, dry your eyes, you’ve nothing to fear. Young women like Miss Bowles are meddlers, desperate to hold other women’s babies. Sometimes, when a young woman dies, they try to endear themselves to the bereaved by raising … well, let’s just call them false hopes. I’ve seen it all before, Mrs Bustle, and trust me, no one will believe this girl’s stories. Indeed, if she is not careful, Miss Bowles will find herself quite unemployable.’

  Annie blanched, her pockmarks livid against the sudden pallor of her cheeks. She opened her mouth as if to argue, then snapped it shut. She glanced from Ma’s stony face to Doctor Roberts’ scorn twisted lips. With a wail, she gathered her skirts and dashed from the cabin. Doctor Roberts turned furious eyes on Bridie.

  ‘Out! Get out! Your mother is too frail for company.’

  Bridie fled the hospital cabin, saw Annie jerk her canvas bag from the hook above their bed, grab her blankets, and lug them down to a vacant bunk at the single girls’ end of the deck. Bridie watched, stunned. First Siân, then Rhys, now Annie. Their mess torn apart within hours of reaching the foreign shore.

  By the time Bridie was once again permitted to visit the hospital, Ma’s fragile calm had been restored. Bridie’s fingers itched to pull back Dylan’s shawl and search his downy head. To ask what the words leave us alone and it’s too late meant. But Ma’s eyes were huge, tear laden, and for some reason Bridie found herself unwilling to plumb their depths.

  ‘Sorry, Bridie. I don’t know what’s come over me.’

  ‘It’s all right.’ Bridie picked her notebook up from where it had fallen. ‘We’ve both had a difficult journey.’

  ‘Yes, we have.’

  ‘It’s going to be all right now though. Alf and I have sorted things out. He’s explained about my dad. So that’s one less thing for you to worry about.’

  ‘Oh, Bridie.’ Ma pressed a hand to her lips.

  ‘No, Ma, please don’t cry. Alf’s waiting on deck. Truly, I’m not making it up this time. He’ll worry if we don’t join him. You wouldn’t want that, would you? He’s worked so hard for this moment.’

  Lady Sophia’s main deck was festive as a fair ground. Her patched, every day canvas had been replaced by clean white sails, her signal flags strung along the rigging like bunting. As they stood beside Alf, watching the sun’s upward climb, the last of the morning mist evaporated.

  A whaleboat rowed out through the heads.

  The pilot, a young man with a thatch of mud-blond hair, climbed the ladder under the microscope of hundreds of watching eyes. He was the first new person Bridie had seen since Cape Town, his bronzed face, dusty black trousers and checked shirt as wondrous as opening night at the theatre. After greeting Captain Thompson, he raised a blue flag to show that Lady Sophia was now under his command.

  It was sweltering on the main deck. Sweat trickled beneath Bridie’s bodice—her wool dress, stays, and petticoats quite unsuitable for the weather. Ma’s forehead glistened in the blinding sun. She leaned forward, shielding Dylan’s face.

  ‘What are we waiting for, Alf love?

  ‘The entrance is narrow like a bottleneck. We’re waiting for slack water, which occurs three hours either side of high wa
ter, in order to go through the heads.’

  ‘How do they know it’s slack?’ Bridie peered at the smooth green waters beneath.

  ‘They watch the tides, lass.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course.’ She wasn’t interested in the tides. But these small courtesies were part of the new order of things. Strange to think she and Alf were now friends. Last night had a shifting, midsummer-night quality. But no, it was real. Her notebook burned like a brand in her hand. Her anxious eyes scanned the deck for Rhys.

  ‘Why do they call it The Rip?’ Ma asked.

  ‘Because a strong ebb tide runs across the entrance to the bay. As it meets the waters of Bass Strait, it ripples the sea. The entrance is about a mile and three quarters wide. But there are shoals on either side.’

  Bridie wrenched her gaze from the crowded deck and peered at the approaching heads. A hummocky strip of land jutted out from one side of the entrance, its sandy shore covered with a straggle of distorted shrubs. On the other side was the place Alf had called Shortland’s Bluff. Someone had built a red and white obelisk beside the weatherboard pilot station. It looked garish amid the strange beauty of their setting.

  ‘There are two channels. The west one, heading over that way. But by the looks of it, we’ll be taking the east channel. We’ll have to hug the shore until we get in line with that hill over there. It’s called Arthur’s Seat.’

  ‘Who was Arthur then, love?’

  Bridie didn’t hear Alf’s reply. She’d just caught sight of Rhys. He stood alone, looking out over the bulwarks, as if grief was somehow catching. She wasn’t sure, even now, what she would say to him. Funny, how fast a friendship could unravel. Only a week ago, Siân had been alive and there had been no awkward silence to breach, or welter of strange emotions. Now, he was like the muddy island blocking the entrance to Port Phillip Bay.

  Something to be carefully navigated with care.

  He pulled something from his pocket and turned it over in his hand. What must today feel like for him? He’d dressed for arrival, a good sign, and seemed steady on his feet. But he probably couldn’t wait to leave the ship. There would be no groups of single men willing to pool their wine rations in order to help him drown his sorrows. Neither would there be an overhead deck. He’d be able to grieve in the open air.