TWO
The quay from above my wounded mother the commander boards the fate of three women
The ship. The whispered word had done nothing to prepare me for the dizzying reality. It towered over us as we drove onto the concrete at the water’s edge, solid and magnificent, a palace. A temple. It was as though my father had taken the British Museum, made it shine and put it on water. Ropes as thick as my father’s arms tethered it to the quay.
‘Doesn’t it make you feel small, Lalla?’ my father asked. But it didn’t make me feel small. It made me feel that I could fly. I craned my head to marvel at the ship’s whiteness, its grandeur, the rising sun reflecting on the windows and filling them with gold. I almost forgot my mother until she groaned in my father’s arms.
‘It’s here,’ I breathed. ‘It’s all true.’
‘Yes, little one,’ he said. ‘It’s all true.’
The escorting jeeps had disappeared. For a moment, the three of us were alone, the ship rising from the water before us. Then I saw the guards leading a procession of people towards us. As the people came closer, I realised that many of their faces were familiar. The man with the dark grey beard that had one white strand running through it; the woman whose eyes were like my mother’s; another woman, old, old, with black eyes bright in her dark face. They had all come to the flat; I had watched them through windows, from behind doors, and now they were here. I remembered a boy with green eyes, who had smiled at me once. I looked for him, but when I saw him I pretended I hadn’t, afraid he wouldn’t smile at me again.
‘Lalla,’ my father said as I stared, ‘run up ahead to the ballroom and open the doors.’ And it was their turn to stare at me as I ran across the quay. I was the first to touch the ship, and it was unyielding and real. My heart lifted as I unfastened the gangway gate. My red shoes set the gangway jangling as I ran up.
At the top, I stopped and turned around, breathing hard. I wanted to shout out to the sky up above and to my parents below. We were getting away. For years I had waited, dancing on the periphery of my parents’ vision as they worked and prepared. Now my dress blazed orange against the white of the ship; I was a torch, a flame, I was forging the way. The gangway was held to the ship with a bolt on either side, each longer than my forearm. I put my hand on one, and imagined the moment when the bolts would be drawn back.
On the quay, the people parted to let my father through. Where he walked, they followed, like water swirling in the wake of a trailing hand. In my father’s arms, my mother in her silk dress seemed to float like a flower. The ship. The beginning of every tomorrow there would ever be. The guards formed a corridor to the gangway; the people filled it. There would be a doctor among them, I was sure, and medicines and bandages. The deck rail was cold under my outstretched hand.
My father looked up and I remembered that he had told me to go straight to the ballroom. I had no idea where or what the ballroom was, but ahead of me I saw a pair of doors with golden handles and panels of decorated glass. I pushed them open and entered a vast hall, with blue velvet benches running the length of the walls and three chandeliers, sparkling with crystals, hanging from the ceiling. At the top of the room was a raised podium; on the podium stood a polished wooden desk; on the desk, fat and leather-bound, sat the manifest. This, then, was the ballroom, unreal in luxury and cleanliness. I stood and stared at the manifest. Those thick, dark covers held the details of every one of the people my parents had invited on board. If I read it through, there would be no such thing as a stranger, for as long as the ship sailed.
I saw my father through the window and ran to hold the door. He laid my mother on blue velvet and knelt beside her. Her palms were sticky, and her forehead shone with perspiration. Her skin was marble white. Only the movement of her eyes behind her closed lids and the blood seeping through the front of her dress said that she was still alive. I looked to my father for instructions, but he would not look at me, however hard I stared at him. He held my mother’s hand to his forehead, his eyes tightly shut, while I watched the people coming in. ‘For Lalage,’ I heard him say under his breath, as though there was no one else in the room. He looked at the manifest, and then at me, and I was glad I had not touched it. He rose and I took his place beside her.
The people began to enter. First was a man with a grey face, lined and tired. As he came closer to my father, his shoulders straightened and he held his head higher, and I saw his blue eyes, eyes that belonged in a younger face. The rest of the people oozed behind him. They filed in and sat on the blue velvet benches, shuffling up, making room for each other, eyes meeting then looking away. Now, those people are Finn, Helen, Patience, Gabriel, Jamila. They are Luke, Emily, Tom. They have names, and stories that I know. But on that first day, they were images of hunger and sadness and loss, each as desperate as each other, and all I cared about was that one of them was surely a doctor.
From where I knelt, I could see the quay. The embarkation exposed its grey concrete in patches that grew bigger and bigger, until all that was left were the last few people stepping onto the gangway, the abandoned car and the two lines of guards. When we’d gone they’d tear the car apart for shelter, for food, for the dregs of petrol left in the tank. Beyond the car, the obsolete road unwound, hemmed in on either side by broken warehouses. Then my mother coughed and I forgot the guards. I forgot the ship and the people. I went and pulled at my father’s jacket, as I had been doing ever since I was tiny. The six people he had been talking to left the ballroom at a run, and he turned to face me.
‘Father,’ I said, ‘which one is the doctor?’
‘Wait,’ he said.
‘But Father …’
He looked at me then. ‘Lalla,’ he said, and his voice was low and urgent. ‘We’ve got to sail. The government troops will be coming. There is no doubt of that. And they will be armed.’
‘Then why aren’t we sailing?’
‘We have to start the engines. Register the people.’
Register the people? My father’s time and my mother’s time were running at different speeds, and if I could not bring them together, my mother would die. This, then, was fear, and even as my heart pounded and my fingernails carved half moons on the palm of my hands, I thought how strange it was that I learned to feel fear the moment I was brought to safety.
‘Roger!’ My father beckoned to a man who had entered in a rush, looking anxiously about him, his floppy hair swinging lank across his face. In the flood of light from the huge windows, his skin looked translucent and crumpled. I wondered when he had last eaten, or slept. He thrust the parcel he was holding into the hands of a woman with red hair and ran to us.
‘How is Anna?’ he said at once. Then he saw her, and he closed his eyes as though he was in pain. My mother sighed, and then coughed again, rearing up as the bloodstains on the towel darkened and shone. The doctor grabbed a cushion from the bench – deep blue velvet, soft, new, untouched – and gave it to me. ‘Press this over the bleeding,’ he said. I started to try and remove the towel but he stopped me. ‘No,’ he said sharply, as though he’d expected better of me, ‘just hold it over what’s already there.’ He put his hand to her forehead and snatched it away almost immediately. ‘She’s burning up,’ the doctor said. ‘The wound must be infected.’
‘So quickly?’ my father said, and I let go of the cushion; it fell to the floor just as the doctor was turning to my father, and his foot sent it spinning away.
The cushion came to rest in front of my father’s desk, bloodstain uppermost. The manifest sat on the desk, fat and solid, and the three of us stared at it.
‘Lalage,’ my mother whispered softly. ‘Michael?’
‘I’m here,’ I said, squeezing her hand.
‘Anna,’ my father said, kneeling. ‘Anna, I’ve sent the engineers straight down. The doctor’s here. We’ll be sailing soon. Try, Anna. Please try.’
‘Register them first,’ she breathed. Then her eyes opened wide, and no matter how many times I said, I
’m here, I’m here, no matter how close to her I held my face, her eyes kept darting from side to side, seeing nothing. I kissed her forehead and was startled by its heat.
‘The infirmary’s ready, isn’t it?’ my father asked the man Roger. ‘It’s all done?’
‘It’s been ready for a long time,’ the doctor said, and my father strode to the desk. The red-headed woman was standing next to it; she stepped aside, and my father opened the manifest. The cover thudded heavily; the pen sat fatly in his hand.
‘Sign,’ he said, trembling. The doctor took the pen from my father’s hand. He could not help lifting the pen to look at it first, and I thought the delay might kill her. Then he signed, and as he did so, my father leaned into him and whispered fiercely, ‘You save her, do you hear me? You save her.’
The doctor paled, then lifted my mother in his arms. ‘I’ll try, Michael. I’ll do everything I can.’ A dark-haired woman opened the door for them, and I followed them.
‘No,’ my father said. The word was a bullet. ‘Not you, Lalla. Let Roger do his job.’
I stopped and turned, incredulous. Whenever our unit of three had been separated, it had been my father striding off alone, sometimes for weeks at a time, and my mother and I left together, counting the days until he came back. I did not know how to leave her to be with him. And whatever the doctor’s job was, I was a part of it. The room had filled while I had been bent over my mother; wherever I looked, there was a face fixed on me. I had never been so close to so many people; I stepped backwards and tripped over someone’s feet.
‘We’re going to register,’ my father said. I protested, but a voice above me spoke softly; I looked from the feet into the black eyes of an old woman.
‘What would your mother do if she were with us?’ she asked.
‘But she’s still with us,’ I said, looking around. Hundreds of eyes stared back at me, wide with sympathy, and I began to panic. ‘She’s still with us,’ I repeated, as though repetition could somehow make it true.
‘Come here, Lalla,’ my father said. I walked to the podium and sat down beside him; he placed his hand on my head with tears in his eyes, and I knew I had no choice.
No one picked up the cushion.
My father spoke into a small black stick. ‘Hello,’ he said, and his voice cracked a little and then suddenly came from everywhere, as though a thousand of him had surrounded the ballroom and spoken together. He pulled back a little, startled, then leaned in again. ‘Can everyone hear me?’ The people called back, and my father continued, ‘That’s good. That works, then. So, welcome. We – we all – I mean, here we are, come to the ship at last. It’s been a long wait but you’ve made it. You’re free to breathe now. As you know, Anna’s been hurt, but she’s in good hands. In a few moments, we’ll be off. But while the engineers are doing their work, shall we greet each other? I know you’ve been together in the holding centre for a long time, but let’s meet each other once more, as the people of the ship.’
All around the room, people smiled and held their hands out to each other. The people drew together before him, all rags and grime and hungry eyes, until I was utterly alone in the room.
I could not bear to look at them. The bloodstained cushion sat like a reproach; my mother was somewhere, bleeding, needing me. And I needed her. In this great crowd, I was still alone. I skulked behind my father, looking over their heads, desperate to avoid eye contact. Through the big picture windows I could see the guards on the quay gathered in dark blotches, waiting for us to unbolt the gangway so that they could wheel it away, release the ropes and send us on our way. They were hunched over; one of them, at least, was crying. Were they so sorry to see us go? Beyond the guards sat the little car. I went to the window and gazed at the car until I almost saw my mother’s blood on its back seat. Along the road, the broken windows made dark gaps in the warehouse facades. And at the end of that road I saw a grey shape that had not been there before.
‘Father,’ I said, moving closer to him, but the ballroom doors opened and six people walked in, nervous and proud.
‘Our engineers,’ my father called through the microphone, and my plea was lost in cheers, and then in a wave of movement as people began to move towards the desk. My father called their names. The first – Diana Aabri, dark-eyed and serious – picked up the cushion and laid it gently on the podium where no one would step on it, and I felt a burst of gratitude that made me want to run to her. But there were other names, and Diana had moved away long before I had found the courage to approach her. One by one, they stepped onto the podium and signed the pages of the manifest, fascinated by the pen, the smooth ivory paper, the kindness of my father smiling upon them. One by one, they stepped off and gathered excitedly together, looking curiously and yet kindly at me as they did so, exchanging names, exchanging looks. Exchanging stories. And as they did so, I saw the anonymous mass resolve into dozens, hundreds of individuals, and wondered whether any one of them would help me.
‘Father,’ I called again, my breath catching, but the buzz of the people drowned not only my voice, but another, fainter buzz that might have come from my father’s microphone.
And then the new darkness at the end of the road spat out a globule of black. The globule moved with strength and purpose down the centre of the road, and as it grew bigger I realised it was a group, running in formation. In a few short seconds, they reached my father’s guards and separated, and, for the second time since we boarded, fear rose in me. Those were uniforms. Not the makeshift clothes of the street in which everyone looked the same, or the worn fatigues my father had found for his guards, but clean, sharp, deliberate clothes, in unfaded black. I had seen them in the bulletins, batons lifted against marketeers. I had seen them at registrations and at food drops, patrolling the queues, removing those whose cards had become invalid, invalidating the cards of those who resisted. My card was always valid and I did not have to use the markets, but the black uniforms frightened me now. Government troops.
‘Father,’ I said, more loudly this time, but the rhythmic jangling of heavy boots on the gangway silenced me. Beside me someone screamed; the whole room seemed to harden; people who had been smiling gently at each other stiffened and drew apart. The ballroom doors burst open and my father’s chief guard strode in. The registration stopped.
‘The troops are here, Mr Paul,’ the guard said, breathing hard. ‘Shall we shoot them?’
My father shook his head. ‘No, Greenlaw. Not as a first resort. And you should have left your gun with the others. You know the rules. No guns on the ship.’ But before Greenlaw could leave, the ballroom door was flung open by a man in true black. He had a craggy face, one which we had all seen on the bulletins. He, too, carried a gun. So did the two soldiers who stood behind him.
‘Michael Paul,’ he said, and his voice needed no microphone.
‘Commander Marius,’ my father said. His voice was pinched and light. ‘In person. We are honoured. And your armed guards. Delighted, I’m sure.’
‘We’re here to arrest you.’
‘On what charge?’
‘Stealing state property.’
My father smiled with relief, and the room settled with him. Greenlaw went back to the quay, gripping his rifle. ‘The ship is mine,’ my father said. ‘It’s registered to me, and it’s been re-registered every time the regulations have changed. I’ve kept a hard trail.’ He took a sheaf of printouts from his case and offered it to the commander with a look of pity. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey. Did you run all the way?’ My mother’s voice floated over us. Above board, Michael. Legal. Nothing that might shame us.
I will be with you, I promised her silently.
‘I’m not talking about the ship,’ Commander Marius said contemptuously.
My father leaned forward, his face alive with interest. ‘What, then? The provisions?’
‘No. We can’t trace those to government supplies.’
My father raised his eyebrows as though he was
acknowledging a compliment. ‘I didn’t know that the state had any property left,’ he said. ‘Everything on board is mine, I assure you.’
There was a gentle ripple of sound; I looked around me and realised that I had just heard strangers laughing. It felt light inside me; it was a feeling I liked, one I wanted to have again. My fear bubbled away; I thought this must be a game, something my father had arranged for everyone before we sailed away, and I laughed too, confident that I’d be with my mother shortly, and that she would be all right.
‘Look,’ my father said, irritation shading his voice. ‘My wife and I have kept up with every single new law. There is no obscure amendment, no loophole, no adjustment you can surprise me with.’
‘The Exodus Act,’ the commander said triumphantly. My father’s expression of amused tolerance did not change, but it set hard and the palms of my hands began to feel damp. ‘You’ve forgotten the Exodus Act.’
‘The Exodus Act?’ my father repeated. Astonished eyes travelled from my father to the uniformed men and back again. My father spoke slowly. ‘The Exodus Act was twenty years ago. More. Under the previous government. The elected one,’ he added pointedly. The amusement had gone; now my father looked wary, alert, ready to produce whatever snippet of knowledge was required.
‘But the principle still holds. No state assets can be exported from the state.’
My father nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But the ship is not a state asset. And how can I export when there’s nowhere to export to?’ He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘We’re not your problem. We’re just five hundred fewer people for you to feed. Please, Marius.’ He swallowed. ‘My wife is injured. I need to get to her.’
The commander turned away from my father and indicated the ballroom. ‘Have these people all got valid identity cards?’
‘Of course they have. They wouldn’t have lasted long without them.’
The Ship Page 3