by Alex Shearer
To be honest, in some ways, it seemed like a sacrifice worth making. If it would eat Botcher and go away … well, you can always get another fat, useless sky-puss without any trouble. But then, we’d had him for years, and it may have been a bit of a strange-shaped family, but he was a part of it, in his bone-idle way.
‘One of the eyes, Gemma …’
I’d known that instinctively. But just the thought of it turned me over. The stomach, the throat, the chest – that I could do. But it had to be something that would stop it in its tracks.
The Great Blue flipped a fin and spun round again. It angled in for the kill, tail up, nose down. Botcher sat looking at it. You might not believe that a sky-cat could sob, but he did. He was just a big ball of absolute terror.
Then the Great Blue opened its mouth wider, ready for the big, swallow-whole bite. You could see all its teeth, both sets of them, and sharp as knives.
‘Gemma …’
I knew I had to do it and I wanted to do it with my eyes closed. But that would have been no good as I might have missed. So just as the Great Blue went in for the kill, I stabbed upwards with the boathook, thrusting it in with all my strength.
‘Oh, that is … revolting!’
I jumped back. Botcher ran. I could hear Martin throwing up. The Great Blue crashed to the deck and began writhing. Peggy was over next to me then, taking the boathook and telling me to get out of the way. She stuck the hook in again, aiming for its heart. For an old lady she was stringy but strong. She pulled the boathook out again and rammed it in once more, as if she and sky-sharks had an old grievance, and she was getting her own back for past losses, and finally settling old scores.
The sky-shark let out the most awful gasp, fighting for breath and survival. It thrashed over the deck, its huge body crushing and knocking things aside. Then it flapped its fins and managed to get briefly back into the air, like it might manage to escape. But its strength gave out and it crashed again onto the boat, with a horrendous screech coming from it. There was the sound of things breaking as it twisted around on deck, then it finally stopped moving, and at last it was still and quiet, and just lay there in a pool of blood, on top of the now-smashed solar panels.
‘Is it dead?’
Martin approached it.
‘Just wait, Martin.’
Peggy stood, boathook in hand. She gave the shark a couple of prods.
‘It’s OK. It’s gone.’
Botcher ventured near. All bravery and swagger now, as if he’d killed the sky-shark himself. But when those huge jaws twitched again, in the throes of death, he was off like a harpoon to the far end of the boat.
‘What are we going to do with it?’ Martin said. ‘And the stink!’ He was right. It didn’t smell too good. ‘And what’s that?’
Sky-lice were crawling away from the dead shark.
‘Rats,’ Peggy said. ‘Deserting the sinking ship.’
She stamped on them.
‘And we don’t want them either.’
‘But what are we going to do with it?’ Martin said.
‘Throw it overboard.’
‘How? I mean, look at its teeth.’ Then he got covetous. ‘Can I pull one out? As a souvenir?’
‘Martin! Stay away.’
‘Only looking.’
‘Get the winch over.’
There was a winch fixed to the deck. It had an arm that could swivel around and was generally used for loading. We swung it about and got some ropes and nets connected under the shark and then used the winch to hoist it up. Then we moved the winch, released the ropes, and dropped the carcass over the side.
‘Look –’
Martin was at the rail, face down, head poked over, watching it fall. It hadn’t gone far before all the local predators were after it, chasing it down through the sky, hoping to get a couple of bites in before it fell into the sun.
‘Oh wow … And that could have been us.’
‘And look at this. Just great. Just what we need.’
Peggy was standing looking down at the solar panels, every one of them broken.
‘Any of them working, Gran?’ I said.
‘I don’t think so. Some might be repairable – if we had the parts. But I don’t carry that many spares. The rest, they’ll need replacing.’
Martin looked at the wreckage.
‘Oh dear,’ he said.
‘Yes, Martin,’ Peggy said. ‘Oh dear.’ And that was about as near to reproaching him as she got. ‘Oh dear, indeed.’
‘Sorry,’ Martin said. ‘About the leftovers. I never thought … I didn’t realise for a moment that they’d attract –’
‘Well, we know now.’
‘So what are we going to do, Peggy?’
‘Head for land, I guess. Not much choice. Try and make some repairs.’
‘We’ve still got the wind sails.’
Peggy wet a finger and held it up.
‘Got the wind sails, but don’t have the air to fill them, do we? Wind sails alone won’t get us there, Gemma. Not this side of half-term. Limp in on wind sails, and by the time we get to City Island another set of holidays will have begun.’
‘Sorry, Gran …’
‘It’s all right, Martin. You weren’t to know. But you know now, right? You’ve learned something. OK?’
‘I suppose so,’ he said, but he said it reluctantly.
‘OK. Let’s get this mess cleared up and then we’ll get started.’
‘Where’ll we head for?’
‘I’ll look at the charts. The nearest friendly island.’
I got a broom and Martin got a pan and a brush and we scraped the bits of sky-shark off the deck and tidied up the shattered solar panels.
‘There’s an island about eight hours’ sailing away,’ Peggy said. ‘According to these charts. Might take us longer if we’re just using wind sails. And it’s out of our way. But never mind. Can’t be helped.’
Peggy changed the charts around and propped the new one up by the wheel. She altered course and adjusted the sails and we set off from our bearings at about ninety degrees to port.
‘Sorry, Peggy.’
‘All right, Martin. Don’t keep apologising. Too much apologising makes things worse, not better.’
‘Anyone want a cup of green tea?’
Which made her smile.
‘OK, Martin. Yes. Thank you.’
He went down to the galley. Botcher followed him. Whenever anyone went down to the galley, Botcher always went there too. He didn’t necessarily get anything, but he must have felt it was worth a try.
Ten minutes later Martin was back with three bowls of green tea and a bowl of water for you-know-who.
‘Thank you, Martin.’
‘So what’s the name of the island, Peggy?’ I asked.
She was reluctant to tell me.
‘I can’t really read what it says on the chart,’ she said. ‘Old eyes. I need a test and new glasses. Not had one in more than ten years. I’ll get them done at City Island.’
‘Want me to look?’
‘No, it’s OK. I mean, I can make out what it says. I just think it’s a mistake or something.’
‘Why? What’s it say?’
‘Well … it says here …’ She pointed at the shape of a small island on the sky chart. ‘Says here that it’s called Ignorance.’
‘Ignorance?’
‘Ignorance. But that can’t be right. Maybe a misprint or a misspelling. I think what they really meant is Innocence.’
‘Innocence. Yes. That’s a nice name for an island,’ I said, getting warmed to the place already. ‘Innocence – kind of sunshine and a few trees bending in the breeze, and a natural rock spring with sweet water.’
‘That’s it.’ Peggy smiled. ‘That’s the one. And that’s where we’re heading. We’ll get the solar engines fixed in no time.’
‘Be a weird place if it really is called Ignorance,’ Martin chimed in, peering over Peggy’s arm to see the map.
‘It
’s a mistake,’ Peggy said. ‘They copied it down wrong.’
‘I mean, who’d call an island Ignorance? Calling a place Ignorance, that’s just well … downright ignorant, if you ask me.’
‘It’s a mistake, Martin. There’s nowhere called Ignorance, believe me. No one is going to call an island Ignorance.’
So we drank our green tea and let the slow hours pass as the soft, poor breezes carried us interminably along through the sky. The wind was just a ripple really, not properly blowing at all, more just breathing gently, like someone asleep.
We dozed, we played I Spy – but that sure is hard in the middle of nowhere when there is nothing much to see, and so Martin started cheating and being stupid and I got fed up with the game.
Then, at last, we saw a distant island to which we drew ever nearer, until eventually we could make out signs of habitation; there were clusters of ornate buildings and fine houses on one side of it, but on the other there was a kind of shanty town of makeshift, temporary-looking structures and banged-together homes. These were patchwork and multicoloured and crowded in close together. It was a barrio, a ghetto, a township – so Peggy said – the kind of place where poor immigrants might live as they waited for opportunity to come their way and to get a handhold on a better life.
‘There’s the harbour!’ Martin called. He was at the prow, holding Peggy’s old telescope up to his eye. ‘And there’s the name sign.’
And there it was too. Proud and tall, standing up on the hills, visible for a long way.
IGNORANCE, it read. NO FINER PLACE TO BE.
‘Peggy,’ I said. ‘It is called Ignorance. It looks like the chart was right after all.’
‘Yes,’ she said, with a sour note to her voice. ‘Doesn’t it though?’
She didn’t sound at all happy about it.
‘Take the sails in, will you, Gemma?’
I went and lowered them, and we drifted in to land. Some people were gathered on the jetty; they were short and squat, but friendly-looking, dressed in tattered clothes. Some didn’t even have sandals, just a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.
We threw them a line and they helped us tie up.
‘Thank you!’ I called.
But as I did, a slim, elegant and finely dressed woman appeared. She was a head or more taller than the labourers on the jetty and was beautifully manicured and had highlighted hair. Her arms and fingers and ankles and throat were laden with bracelets and jewellery.
‘It’s all right. There’s no need to thank them. They’re only Drools. But do step onto our island. You’re very welcome. It’s not often we get visitors.’ And she took us in with her eyes, and weighed us up in her estimation. ‘Of any description,’ she added. ‘Guests are quite a novelty here. So please, do join us.’
She indicated the jetty. So we followed the sweep of her hand and got down from the boat and joined her.
‘And are you all the people on board?’ she said, as if she expected us to have a few servants along to carry the bags and stir the tea.
‘We are. I’m Peggy,’ Gran said. ‘And these are … well … these are kin. Great-great-grand-niece and nephew. Gemma and Martin. We need to make some repairs to our solar engines. I was taking them to City Island, but we ran into trouble.’
‘Oh, City Island! What fun. I haven’t been there in ten turnings or more. Were you going for the shopping? Or the opera?’
‘We’re going there so they can get an education,’ Peggy told the woman, who clapped her hands together at this news, as if it were all great fun and so frightfully amusing.
‘Education!’ she said. ‘How quaint! Oh, wait until I tell the others. They will be entertained. But anyway, do come along. Come on up to the house and let me introduce you.’
‘Erm, but how about –?’
‘No, don’t worry about your boat. The Drools will look after it. They’ll do all that. You won’t need to do anything. They’ll fix the solar engines for you. They’re ever so clever in their way, at practical things and so on. So good with their hands, you know. Just maybe not so much up top. We leave all the manual work to them.’
‘I can fix it myself,’ Peggy said. ‘I just need the –’
But the woman wouldn’t have it.
‘Oh, no, no, no,’ she said. ‘I won’t hear of it. No, you can’t possibly get your hands dirty. That’s a Drool’s job. They don’t mind it. They enjoy it, really.’
‘We’re not afraid of getting our hands dirty,’ Martin piped up. ‘We can get them dirty as you like. Peggy’s never been against working and getting your hands dirty. Honest toil, right, Gran?’
The tall woman let another flow of golden, tinkling laughter spill from between her perfect teeth and out of her rosebud mouth.
‘Oh, isn’t he just so cute,’ she said. ‘Isn’t he such an absolute darling?’ And she actually ruffled his hair, which if I’d done it, would have been suicide. But Martin could hardly kick her, so he just glared.
And I thought to myself, is that really my brother Martin you’re talking about? Cute? Darling? Martin?
How ignorant can you be, lady? I thought.
But I was about to find that out.
7
the villa
GEMMA STILL REMEMBERING:
‘We can walk it,’ Peggy said, as we left the harbour and saw the houses up on the hill.
‘Oh no,’ the lady said. ‘Really. You can’t possibly.’
‘It doesn’t look far. And we’ve been cooped up on the boat. It would be nice for us to stretch our –’
‘No, really. It’s what the Drools are for. They’d be upset if you wouldn’t let them transport you. Just take a chair each and they’ll carry us up the hill.’
Sedan chairs, Peggy told me later, is what they were called. Two poles, a chair, one Drool at the front, one at the back, up they lift you and away you go.
Our little convoy set out, following the sedan chair carrying Tania, which turned out to be the lady’s name. Peggy followed her, then Martin, and I was last.
The two men carrying my chair were like the ones we had seen on the jetty – short, squat, and poorly dressed. But their eyes were bright and alert, and to me, far from being mere drudges, they appeared keenly intelligent. Calling them Drools seemed nothing better than a deliberate insult. They were friendly and cheerful too, but I had the sense that they were watching and waiting and biding their time. But for what, I didn’t know.
They carried us along through the small town and up the hill in the direction of a large villa which surely had to have a fine view of the coast. I could see the back of the man at the front of my chair; the muscles of his neck were knotted; sweat soon began to appear on his skin.
On we went. We passed more tall and elegant people. Tania knew and greeted them all, and called that we were visitors, and everyone and anyone was invited to her villa for drinks.
Her friends regarded us with curious looks and smiles. And every single one of these tall, elegant people had a couple of Drools alongside, carrying the shopping, or waiting to move the people on in their sedan chairs. I noticed as we passed that the Drools were behind the shop counters, that they worked in the restaurants, and that they swept the streets. In fact, it was the Drools who did everything, while the better-off people did nothing. The rich-looking ones were completely idle. But the Drools were all business and industry.
‘Who lives there?’ I heard Peggy ask, as we went on up the hill. The road narrowed and began to spiral. To our left, at a distance, was another shanty town.
‘Oh, the Drools,’ Tania answered languidly. ‘They have their space. We have ours. But it all works frightfully well. They know how to run everything and we let them get on with it. I couldn’t even iron a pillowcase, myself. But then, I don’t need to, not with the Drools about. Do you have many Drools on your island?’
‘None,’ Peggy said, rather curtly too.
‘Well, good Lord! Then who does the work?’
‘We do,’ Peggy said.
‘It’s better than sitting there,’ I heard Peggy mutter. ‘On your butt all day.’ But I don’t know if Tania caught what she said, as Peggy followed up her comment with a question. ‘What’s going on there?’
At the edge of the shanty town a building was going up. It was a good-sized villa, it seemed to me, or it would be when it was completed.
Tania’s eyes glanced across to it; her expression registered mild distaste.
‘Oh, yes –’ Her face (patrician and aristocratic, I was later to discover, were the words that applied to it) clouded briefly, with perplexity and slight annoyance. But these clouds soon vanished. ‘Yes, it’s a Drool, apparently. Building himself a villa. Casper, he’s called. Top Drool or something. No idea where he gets the money from. Yes. Odd really. They seem to be getting better off, the Drools. Not uppity. We wouldn’t have that. Reynold, my husband – whom you’ll meet – he’d speak to them if they got uppity. But they do seem to be getting better off.’
And then we were at the villa. The Drools set down the sedan chairs they had carried us in and wiped the streaming perspiration from their faces.
‘Well, do come in and have some refreshments,’ Tania said, leading us into the shade of the villa. ‘You must all be so hot and thirsty from that trek up the hill.’
So we followed her into the villa, leaving the Drools out in the bright, hot sunlight.
‘Don’t they get a drink?’ Peggy said.
Tania looked at her, surprised.
‘Who?’
‘They just carried us up the hill.’
‘Oh – the Drools … why, yes … they’ll have some water somewhere. Well, come on in and meet everyone. It’s so rare that we have guests.’
We passed some more Drools who were sweeping the floors; others were carrying produce. I glanced into the kitchen and saw Drools at work.
‘Reynold …’ He was even taller and more languid than she was. ‘We have visitors. A lady and her two … sort of grandchildren. Their boat’s being repaired.’