by Jeremy Page
‘Does it? Seems entirely natural to me. They’re used to wearing fur—it’s their second skin.’ He appeared pleased with his observation. ‘Do you know East Anglia?’
‘Yes,’ I said, wary of what I should reveal. East Anglia is a gossiper’s paradise. ‘I grew up in Suffolk, and have travelled widely in Norfolk.’
‘A loathsome place,’ Bletchley replied quickly. ‘For the most part muddy, damp, and with an entirely bleak aspect. You can tell when you’ve shaken hands with a Norfolkman, because he has carrots growing under his fingernails. And he may try to plant potatoes in your pockets! As soon as I am back from this trip I shall be off to London.’ Bletchley turned to French: ‘What of you, sir—from which part of England did you crawl out?’
French glanced up at Bletchley. He waved his fork in an offhand gesture. ‘Oh, it is not important.’ He continued to regard the candle, ignoring us.
‘I believe I saw your cousin on deck last night?’ I said.
Bletchley frowned, curious. ‘Really? I am surprised. Perhaps you are mistaken.’
‘Well, perhaps so,’ I said, knowing he was unlikely to offer more. ‘It is easy to be mistaken.’
We never did perform the wager over the sighting of the sun. For at midday, a minor drama had overtaken the Amethyst. A greenfinch had been spotted, flitting between the ratlines of the mainmast and landing on the deck, where it looked startled and confused. Some of the men taunted it, knowing that the ship had taken it far out to sea beyond any possible chance of flying back to land. They tried to catch it by throwing sacking across the deck, but with each attempt, the finch flew up and landed in the rigging, or flew in a circle out to sea, before changing its course and returning to the ship, its only choice of a perch.
‘The men are excited,’ the captain said, watching the sport from the quarterdeck rail.
French was standing next to him. ‘They think it’s an omen,’ he added. ‘First they’re skittish about having a woman on board, now this. They really are an ignorant lot.’
‘An omen of what?’ I asked. French looked at me and raised his eyebrows, inscrutably. ‘Will they catch it?’
‘The finch is already as good as dead,’ he replied. ‘They’ll scare it off, then it will drown. It will fly away from the ship and lack the strength to catch up again.’
Sykes was listening to our exchange. ‘Martin will get it,’ he said, boasting. ‘He courses hares.’
Some of the men climbed the first rungs of the ratlines, preventing the bird from flying up, and I noticed the Herlihy brothers, acting in unison, cornering the finch towards the scuppers, where one of them managed to leap upon it, catching it below his cap.
‘What did I tell you,’ the captain remarked, satisfied. ‘Should’ve had a bet with you, Quinlan—you should have faith in the men.’ He called down to the deck: ‘Well done, Martin!’
‘A fast bird, sir,’ Martin, replied, smiling broadly.
As the men gathered to examine the greenfinch, I asked French whether I could sketch it, so that I might make a painting.
‘Good idea,’ he replied. To the men he shouted: ‘Bring that bird here.’
The men parted, still laughing, and Martin Herlihy brought the bird, captive in his hands, up the ladder of the quarterdeck.
‘Mr Saxby will sketch the finch, while you hold it,’ French explained.
‘Aye, sir,’ Martin replied. He stood in front of me, still sweating from the sport of catching it, immobile and obedient, opening a small gap between his hands in order for me to see the bird.
‘Is it struggling?’ I asked.
‘Quite calm, sir,’ Martin replied. Between his thumb and forefinger I peered in at the greenfinch, seeing its precise nostrils either side of a small polished beak. The eyes looked black and gleaming with fright, or exhaustion. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘How did you manage to catch it?’
‘Couldn’t let me brother win,’ he replied, grinning.
I began to sketch the bird, as quickly as I could, although it was far from ideal as most of it was concealed. Martin Herlihy angled his neck, watching my drawing, and obliging me by trying to move his large fingers, one by one, to reveal different parts of the bird.
‘You’ve got the look of it there, sir,’ he said at one point.
‘This is just a preliminary sketch,’ I replied. ‘I shall make a water-coloured painting of it later.’
‘Ahh,’ he said.
‘Are you all right?’
‘I think it may have shat itself,’ Martin said, grimacing.
‘Nearly finished?’ French asked.
‘Not quite,’ I replied.
‘It’s shat for sure. It’s shat on me finger.’
‘Herlihy, you sound like a woman,’ French said, watching as the man adjusted his hold on the bird. ‘Keep it still now,’ he ordered.
‘I don’t think I can, sir,’ Herlihy grimaced. A dark wing with a vivid yellow flash slipped out between his fingers, accompanied by a hideous chirping that Herlihy tried to subdue.
‘Ahh,’ he said, again, spooked.
‘Oh for God’s sake!’ French said, impatiently. ‘Give it here, you fool.’
Quickly, he reached into Martin Herlihy’s hands, held the frightened bird and, with a practised movement, wrung its neck. The finch jolted two or three times, its beak parting with surprise, before becoming limp. French laid it down on top of the saloon roof, as if it was a small cloth bag, and with a finger he moved the broken neck to arrange it properly.
‘Thank you, Martin, you may resume your duties,’ he said to the Irishman. ‘You may sketch it at your leisure, now, Mr Saxby,’ he told me, and even as he spoke he was turning away, quickly bored by the whole incident. I looked after him, shocked. As he approached the captain, I saw a devilish smile creep across Sykes’ face, and I knew that French must have shared a very private look with him.
Martin Herlihy remained standing where he’d been, as though he’d been slapped. I could tell he felt responsible, and that the death of the bird would sit heavily on him. Strength of body and compassion of mind grow together. He shut his eyes for a second in prayer, before he moved off, wiping his hand on his trouser in a practical manner, but treading heavily, I thought.
I placed my sketchbook next to the dead greenfinch. My half-completed drawing confronted me: the sketch of a bird that was still living. Its similarity to the etching of the great auk in my Arctic book, an image created in all likelihood after the extinction of the species, felt eerie. They were the drawings of ghosts.
Catching the finch had been sport for the whole crew, but its death, and its body, belonged to me. I wondered whether I should drop it over the ship’s rail, but feared this would be transgressing some superstitious custom; worse still, one of the gulls attending the ship would dive, immediately, and swallow it in front of all who watched.
But something had to be done with the body. I was just about to pick it up when surprisingly a hand took hold of my wrist. I heard a voice in my ear, calm and measured, a woman’s voice:
‘Why are the men always killing things?’
I glanced up and saw Celeste, bending to my level, with a woven shawl wrapped tightly round her. Her eyes seemed on the verge of tears, with dark rings below them and skin so shockingly pale it was almost translucent. Her mouth was set firm, as if in pain. She acted as if caught, clutching her arms in protection, holding herself, the only movement that of the curled ringlets of brown hair which hung either side of her face, stirred by the breeze.
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘You don’t know what?’ she replied, with a quick frown that was gone almost as it appeared.
My mouth felt dry. ‘About the men. I don’t know why they kill things.’
I waited for her to recognise me. It had been ten years since we had last seen each other, but I hadn’t changed, not enough. She pressed a hand to her temple, as if suppressing a headache.
‘You are staring at me,’ she said, quietly.
&
nbsp; I felt my skin prickling with heat. ‘I’m sorry.’
She remained there, a little puzzled, looking sadly now at the bird laid next to us on the top of the saloon roof.
‘Were you there at the moment it died?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘They have such tiny souls—perhaps the weight of a breath—that is all.’ She smiled, consoling herself. ‘But it is a soul, nonetheless, such as you and I possess, and who can say whether our souls are any more substantial. Was it in your hands?’
‘When it died? No. That sailor held it.’
‘Which one?’
I looked across the deck where the work of the ship had begun once more, spotting the Herlihy brothers talking to each other. ‘By the galley door—the one with the neckerchief.’
She appraised him with a slight tilt of her head. ‘A strong man, wouldn’t you say? Strong hands, but I think he felt that soul depart. I see it in his face. He felt it as sure as an oak tree must feel the first leaf fall in autumn.’ She performed a curious gesture with her hand, floating it downward as if emulating a leaf. Her hand came to rest on the wood of the roof, alongside the bird.
‘Of course,’ she said, more brightly, ‘the answer is that men kill things because they enjoy it.’
‘Not all men are like that’ I replied.
She smiled, conceding. ‘Did it suffer?’ she asked.
‘It was scared when the men were trying to catch it. It became cornered over there, between the rail and hatches, and when it flew out over the sea I believe it was very agitated. It repeatedly changed course and was distressed to have no option—not knowing whether to be caught or drowned. But once it was captured it became quite calm. When Mr French killed it, he did it swiftly.’
‘Dispatched in a proper manner,’ she stated, unconvinced. I thought about how he had reached into Herlihy’s grasp, impatiently, then how with a twist of his fingers the bird had died, quickly, without fuss and without choice.
‘No. Actually he acted most improperly,’ I said. ‘I think he found pleasure in it.’
She looked back, startled. ‘Yes,’ she said, as a flush of colour rose in her cheeks.
‘The bird was going to die,’ I explained, ‘either at sea or from exhaustion. But it had that right, I suppose—to have a natural death. It shouldn’t have been killed.’
She touched the greenfinch with her finger, closing its beak and then stroking the intricate feathers of its crown. I watched, transfixed, as her fingertip pressed into the plumage of the neck, where the break had occurred, smoothing and flattening the feathers as if they were silk.
‘Are you the collector?’ she asked quietly.
‘Yes.’
‘May I ask your name?’
It’s time, I thought; she will remember the name. ‘Eliot,’ I said. ‘I’m Eliot Saxby.’
She regarded me, a little intrigued, but without any sign of recognition.
‘My cousin has been telling me about you,’ she said. ‘He is … well, what should we say, he’s very impressionable. He likes you.’
I felt confused. Surely she recalled my name? But her look revealed nothing. ‘He is a very enthusiastic fellow,’ I said.
‘Sometimes too enthusiastic,’ she replied, dryly. ‘Like a puppy that keeps bouncing up at you—he needs the occasional rap upon the nose.’
‘I shall bear that in mind.’
‘Was it you I saw last night, listening to the men sing their shanty?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘You were hiding from them.’
‘Was I?’ I tried, attempting to deny it. I could see she wasn’t going to be fooled. ‘Yes. I suppose I was.’
Bletchley appeared, trotting up in a fine jacket and fashionable trousers. ‘Shouldn’t wander the deck at night, Eliot, you might fall in!’ he said, looking as if he wished to be a part of the conversation as quickly as possible. He laughed loudly at his joke, underlining it with an impression of a drowning man.
‘Quite,’ I replied.
I was distinctly aware of two things: first Bletchley, nervously rocking on his heels, excitable and not trusting himself and inexplicably anxious, and secondly, a renewed stiffness in Celeste’s posture. She put on her gloves and adjusted their fit. Bletchley waited for her, then held her wrist, rubbing the bare skin with a vigorous finger, a strange gesture which was unduly intimate. She bent towards him, compliant to his touch. Her expression clouded, as if a veil had been drawn across her face. When he addressed her, it was rather more for my benefit than hers. ‘We must give you medicine,’ he said.
She nodded, chastised. Urged to respond, I asked her whether she had been unwell. She considered the question. ‘I am always unwell.’
‘But we shall get you better,’ Bletchley bleated, anxious now to take charge and lead her away. I suspected complexities to their relationship that would be difficult to determine.
‘Let us go,’ she said. ‘I feel tired.’
‘Yes, dearest. You are. You are tired,’ Bletchley continued, adopting her tone, both of them seeming to address me more than each other.
He clicked his heels in parting, and guided her towards the cabins. I noticed how she barely lifted her feet from the deck, and how pliant she was in his hold. I was struck by a deep sense of unease, of an atmosphere that felt charged and thorny, and effortlessly I remembered how she used to be led along the brick path across that autumnal lawn, her mother’s grip a manacle around her hand.
Before she reached the companionway, she resisted Bletchley and turned back once more. ‘Forgive me,’ she said, smiling wanly, ‘I failed to introduce myself, and it has been good to talk with you. My name is Clara.’
In my confusion, all I could think was that I must seek my cabin immediately. Close a door. There, sitting on the edge of my bunk, I wondered what had occurred. She had called herself Clara. It was unfathomable. Her name was Celeste! We had spoken for several minutes, without her giving the slightest hint that she knew me. Either she was pretending to be a stranger, or I had truly not been recognised. After all, much can happen in ten years, and the autumn months when I had known her had been far from ordinary.
The Norfolk manor house where she lived had been a shadowy and isolated environment. For the most part I had been left alone, in the chilly conservatory, restoring and cataloguing the collection, wearing fingerless gloves so I might handle the eggs safely. Each morning, I would see her through the panes of the conservatory windows, her outline rippled and made uncertain by the age of the glass, as she was led along the path by her mother. The mother was a thickened, severe figure next to Celeste’s slender frame, but they had shared similarities—the length of their stride, the slope of their shoulders, the way they both looked up when the rooks called. In the tightness of her grip it had seemed, some mornings, as if the mother was holding onto a youthful version of herself, and was unable to let go. And Celeste, in turn, appeared held by the darkened presence of a future she wished to be no part of. I had had time to think these things. Celeste was young, no more than sixteen, and I had been twenty-two, I had been excited by the mystery of who she might be and the possibility that I might get to know her. Struck too by her beauty, her ghostly fragility, the dreamlike lift of her feet from the brick path, the thin soles of her shoes, the pearl whiteness of her gown against the deep wet softness of the lawn. She was graceful, almost transparent, it appeared, her figure almost floating. I had been mesmerised. Yet her presence in the house was never mentioned. In the three months I was there, my employer adamantly refused to acknowledge even the existence of his daughter. During the times when he was in the conservatory—while she was being led across the lawn—he would look anywhere but in her direction. Instead, he would pace the cold tiled floor, or drum his fingers on one of the shelves, daring me to glance at the girl beyond the glass. I had been certain I would be sacked if I asked about her, or even looked in her direction.
Clara joined us for supper that evening, for the first time since le
aving Liverpool. She had prepared for dinner, and wore a dress of pale gold brocaded silk, trimmed with lacing and embroidered net mittens. But it was apparent from the way she sat, quietly and not wishing to look anyone in the eye, that she was far from comfortable. Bletchley was undaunted, mentioning several times that it was good to see her out of her cabin, getting better, getting stronger. Fit as a fiddle in no time. He kept patting her on the back of her hand, neither noticing the obvious flinch when he did so, nor the fact that she did not eat or drink.
Sykes was intrigued. ‘It is a real pleasure to have a lady travelling with us,’ he said, encouraging her to take part. ‘As rare as one of Mr Saxby’s birds, I believe. I do hope the rudimentary nature of life upon the sea is not a burden to you?’
‘My cabin is perfectly comfortable,’ she said, in a clipped and formal voice. Once again, she had been introduced to us as Clara.
‘The men for’ard of the mast can be an uncouth and ill-bred rabble at times. You must excuse them if they tend to stare at the sight of a lady. They have their superstitions and the like, it is most annoying. I have noted it before.’
‘Then I shall do my utmost not to be an object of fascination for your men, Captain Sykes.’
I tried not to look at her. But I wanted to study her face—the face that I had longed to see for so many years. The thin delicate nose, the fine bone of her forehead, the slender chin which was set, revealing nothing. She was so beautiful, so radiant. Celeste had grown into an elegant woman. If she had looked up at me and smiled I think I might have cried out.
‘Of course,’ Sykes continued, ‘Mrs Sykes has been known to venture upon the Amethyst once in a while, but that is rather like having a heavy and shifting cargo in the hold. It makes me clumsy at the helm, irritable with the men and is no good on many accounts.’
‘You seem very fond of her,’ Bletchley exclaimed.
‘Familiar, rather than fond, I would say. As one is familiar with a running nose in winter. Do you recollect that time, Mr French, when Mrs Sykes had us dig the ballast out?’
‘I think of it often,’ French replied. ‘And also the occasion when she made the men brush their teeth.’ Sitting at the opposite end of the table from the captain, he spoke with a modicum of effort. He had been quiet and distracted all evening.