Souls Dryft

by Jayne Fresina

  His mother blamed me. "Wretched girl! Had you kept my poor boy content, he would not have sought his pleasure elsewhere. Had you given my Jacob babes, as a wife should, he would not have strayed."

  I had a knack for rousing tempers. It was a pleasant pastime for a person with nothing but her imagination and other folk’s follies to keep her amused, so I replied, "A babe can’t be made without good seed."

  For this I received another hearty thwack. "You’ll laugh t’other side o’ your kisser, one o’ these days!" But the more I tried to stop laughing, the quicker it came, over-brimming and heedless to her slaps.

  On the morning of his burial, I was shut in the pantry where, once again, I was supposed to repent my sins. I was happy to stay behind, relishing the peaceful few hours alone to continue the adventures of my pirate.

  Since we are friends now, I shall introduce you to him, as he embarks on a brave journey….

  * * * *

  "It is a trying fact of life, Quill, that, as with most evils to which man must become accustomed, when they actually prove to be a necessity, they are suddenly scarce."

  The elderly first mate, at whom this pronouncement was thrust, was soon likewise assaulted by a pair of boots, flying across the cabin in the same manner— with much force and no apparent aim.

  "In short, Quill, there is never one around when you need one."

  "Indeed, Captain," he agreed hastily, stooping to retrieve the discarded items. "May I ask what you find yourself lacking?"

  The walls of the cabin groaned, the floor swaying sharply; neither man noticed, being more familiar with the pitch and yaw of boards beneath their feet, than with steadier ground. Hands on hips, the Captain looked over his shoulder, surveying his cabin, as if he expected to find various and sundry villains hiding in its corners. Brilliant as the spark of flint on a knife’s blade, his eyes were ruthless and took no prisoners.

  "What I need," he blurted, "is a woman." He spent much of his time in private contemplation, rarely sharing the workings of his mind, so he had a habit of making sudden, unexpected announcements. "A woman, Quill," he repeated. "You comprehend the word?"

  "Oh yes, Captain." And Quill, who, in a past life, suffered more than his share of troubles with the fairer sex, ventured a smile.

  "Keep a level head, Quill. Too much excitement is bad for the blood."

  "Indeed." The first mate watched in bemusement, while the younger man paced back and forth in breeches and bare feet, filling the cabin with his restless energy.

  "We drop anchor in a week or so. We’ll make land at Yarmouth."

  "A place filled with obliging wenches, Captain."

  "Quite. But I have in mind a slightly more formal arrangement; one that, hopefully, will not leave me with the pox."

  Quill waited, confused.

  "I speak of marriage, Quill." The Captain’s sun-browned shoulders heaved as he came to a halt. "One day I’ll be dead."

  Observing him warily, Quill thought there were few men as full of life as the one standing before him — in fact, his clothes had a hard time holding it all in. "Would this idea have come to you, by chance, after an extra ration of rum?"

  The Captain ignored him. "It is time I produced a son and heir, before I die. Sadly one cannot be created without a woman." Striding over to the small writing desk under the swaying lantern, he sorted through the mess of papers he kept there. "I wrote down my requirements." Lifting a crumpled, ink-bespattered note, he read, "Good manners, reasonable looks. Not too fair. The handsome ones are always too much trouble." Frowning down at his own scrawl, he continued, "She must be a modest, obedient wench, level-headed, practical, and damned thankful for all the things I give her."

  Abruptly looking at his feet, the first mate tried to think of some dreadful tragedy to chase away the temptation to laugh out loud.

  The Captain sighed. "I am well prepared, Quill, but for one bothersome fact."

  "Bothersome fact?"

  "I am not what might be called handsome."

  Immediately, his first mate went through the familiar motions of being affronted on the Captain’s behalf, chest puffed out and brows knotted. "Handsome takes many forms, Captain."

  "Not, apparently, this one."

  "But surely—"

  "This, Quill, is a face that makes babes cry. And I'm told I lack a certain...charm with the ladies."

  Yet again, Quill bowed his head, hiding his expression. "Oh you're not that bad, Captain. After all, I've known you ten years and surprisingly, despite every intention to the contrary, I like you still."

  "What I need is a rarity," added the Captain, apparently not listening. "A no-nonsense woman, respectable and temperate. One who will stay where she’s put and do as she’s told. Do you know of any desperate wenches who might fulfill my requirements and be willing to overlook this face, or does your acquaintance extend only to the bawdy houses of Yarmouth?"

  As he gazed out at the grey day, a turn of the tide disturbed Quill’s mind, forcing it back out of hiding. "As it happens, I do know of a woman…" The words hung there in the damp, salty air, offered reluctantly. Already he regretted it, but alas it was out there and could not very well be retracted. And there — he had promised himself never to meddle in the girl’s life. Too late. "Baron Deptford’s niece. Newly widowed, I believe."

  "Deptford?" The Captain gave a spiritless laugh. "You know what he thinks of my family."

  "But he gave you your start, found you a place on your first ship." That caused another long pause, while the Captain's weatherworn face passed through a multitude of pained expressions. Quill added, "What better way to repay the Baron for his help, than to relieve him of a burden? I hear he seeks another match for the woman."

  Falling sideways into his hammock, the Captain sprawled there, long limbs barely contained by the groaning rope knots. He scowled at the creaking beams above and began to crack his knuckles.

  "You said yourself, Captain, there is never one around when you need one. And there remains the matter of this debt you owe the Baron."

  Those searching, restless eyes narrowed. "He only helped my career, because he knew it would anger my father, who thought sailing an unprofitable choice."

  "I see." Quill sighed. "Then why bother to repay the debt? Baron Deptford would not expect it, if he has such low opinion of your family."

  The Captain considered carefully, screwing up his face with the effort. "I suppose she is in no position to turn up her nose at me," he conceded finally.

  "Indeed! She must surely fall at your feet with gratitude."

  The clouds parted, revealing a high tropical blue beneath the Captain’s lashes as he smirked at nothing in particular. "Well then, if there is no better wench to be had, she may as well do."

  And so he set off to find me.

  * * * *

  I blew gently on the ink to dry it. Would he ever get here? Would I know him, when he came?

  Sitting by the window, looking out at the rain, I saw another woman staring back at me, her brown eyes heavy with sorrow. I often saw her in my window and sometimes felt her presence, like a warm hand stroking my hair. I had even allowed myself – and you will laugh at this — to imagine she was my mother, come back from Heaven to keep an eye on me. But I worried for her, as she seemed so sad and forlorn. A woman with something undone inside her.

  I closed my eyes and felt her thinking of something hidden away in a dark place, something she lost. She wondered what became of it—of me.

  But I was not lost, was I? I was there, before her in the glass. She just couldn't see me the way I could see her. I laid my hand against the glass to reassure the woman. She would feel me there, even though the space between us was too great to be crossed. Yet.

  Chapter Four

  Grace

  My head was about to explode, and the aspirin bottle in my desk was empty. I was going in without anesthetic.

  Before me, the woman’s sallow face was a frozen mask, the smokers’ lines around her lips pr
ominent as corrugated cardboard. I spoke slowly, watching for any sign of life in those eyes staring back at me, like dark bullet holes in an autopsy. As the words, "lazy" and "disruptive" rolled off my tongue, her eyes finally moved, the pupils expanding and then shrinking again to malevolent pinpricks. Clearly, the fact that I couldn’t do justice to the other children in class, because of her son, Joshua, was meaningless. He was the only thing in her life and so he should be in mine.

  At her side, the erstwhile Joshua slouched in his chair, one foot thumping idly against the leg of my desk, his mouth slowly, methodically churning a wad of gum. His eyes were half- closed, as they often were in class, lurking slyly behind the greasy straggles of hair that fell across his pimpled brow.

  I felt the air move as his mother inhaled one long, enraged breath; then, out it came. "So it’s my son’s fault if you can’t do your job properly?"

  "Mrs. Chippchase, for Joshua’s own—"

  "He’s a good boy. Never gives me any trouble."

  Joshua kicked the desk so hard the pens in my coffee cup rattled violently.

  "I’m glad they’re closing this place down. Now perhaps my boy can get a good education from teachers who know what they’re doing." She grabbed her son by the arm of his anorak. "You’ve had it in for him all year. I ought to complain, but it doesn’t matter now." She jabbed a sharpened finger in my face. "You’re out of a job when they close this school and good riddance too."

  It was the last day of the Christmas term. Usually I would never arrange to meet with parents on that day, because people were too busy and distracted, but I made an effort for two parents, who supposedly could not find any other date suitable. I refused to wait until the new year to leave these two matters unresolved.

  For all her protesting about the injustices her son faced, Mrs. Chippchase cared so little about his education that she took him out of school three times a year for holidays abroad. The official school summer holiday, you see, did not fit her timetable. When he received extra homework to make up for the time away, she complained that he was "picked on".

  As she dragged her son behind her, he looked over his shoulder and spat out his gum, so that it landed in a thick glob of creamy spittle on the cover of my notebook.

  Ah, splendid.

  Before the door slammed behind them, I called for Lucy Downing, the last child of the evening. She was out in the hall, kicking her school bag back and forth. Poking her head around the door, she informed me that her father had not yet arrived.

  Quelle Surprise!

  I had yet to meet the illustrious Mr. Downing, who never picked his daughter up from school, but instead sent various attractive young women to fetch her —never the same one twice, I might add, at the risk of sounding like a prudish spinster—and completely disregarding the school rules, which stated clearly that no child could be released from school premises without a parent, or official guardian. Lucy seemed oblivious and went gladly with anyone who came to fetch her, suggesting this was nothing unusual for her father’s behavior. Just as he was a lackadaisical parent, Lucy was a diffident pupil. She was a very bright child, but avoided work as often as possible and if she took any of my notes home to her father, he certainly never responded to any. Finally I’d reached him by phone and arranged this meeting.

  Tonight, I was prepared for battle.

  Lucy, still slouching in the doorway, suddenly flicked her head around. "Finally! You took your time," she exclaimed peevishly to the man whose footsteps now approached. "You’ve kept her waiting forever. She’s not going to be pleased."

  Aha! I straightened up, physically and mentally. "Wait in the hall while we speak, Lucy," I shouted crisply, just so he’d know I meant business. "I’ll call you in when we’re ready."

  She swung her bag and shrugged, stepping aside to let him in.

  "I’m so glad you could join us, Mr. Downing."

  Very tall, impeccably dressed, dark hair, broad shoulders. A phone pressed to his ear.

  I stared. Oh no. It wasn’t possible.

  There he was again, stepping out of my manuscript. The very pirate. In the flesh.

  His phone made an odd squawking noise, and he frowned at it, not even giving me the courtesy of a greeting. "Damn it!"

  "Mr. Downing."

  "What?" he snapped, finally looking up. "Oh. It’s you." His thin lips curled up at one end like a menacing snake. "What a coincidence," he spat from the corner of his mouth.

  "Won’t you sit down?"

  His phone buzzed, and he slapped to his ear. "Hello? Who is this? Hello?"

  Again he cursed and snapped it shut.

  "Mr. Downing, would you mind not answering your phone, just for half an hour while we have this conference?" See, I was very polite, wasn’t I?

  "Conference?"

  "Let’s not waste any more time. I can see you’re a busy man and so, believe it or not, am I."

  He looked askance. "You’re a busy man?"

  "You know what I meant."

  His phone buzzed frantically. He looked at it, looked at me, and flipped it open, apparently having weighed his choices and dismissed me. At the same time, just to throw salt in the wound, he held up one finger, half turning away to answer his phone.

  I bit my tongue, fingers curled, nails digging blood-red half moons into my palms.

  "Hello? Hello?" He swore again.

  Walking to where he stood with his back to me, I tapped his shoulder. "Mr. Downing, perhaps you are not aware of school procedure, although I find that unlikely since I personally have sent you three copies in the last month, but children cannot be released from school premises unless to a parent or official guardian. Or unless the school receives prior notification from said parent or guardian. Have you any idea how much time is wasted trying to track you down by phone for verification, every time one of your women come for Lucy?"

  He glared over his shoulder. "My women?"

  "What you do with your private life," I added, lowering my voice, "is no concern of mine—"

  "Good." He brushed at his suit where my filthy, common hand must have soiled it. "Glad to hear it."

  "But it would behoove you, Mr. Downing—"

  "It would behoove me?" I already knew, from our previous encounter that his right eyebrow was capable of strenuous mocking with one sharp tilt. In case I had forgotten, he reminded me now of this ability.

  "It would be best for you and for Lucy—"

  "I know what the word means," he interrupted coolly. "You just don’t hear people say it very often."

  There were probably a lot of words he didn’t hear very often. Like, no, I though acidly. He looked the type to get everything he wanted. Not a sign of struggle or self-doubt. Not a stain, or a loose button, or a scuffed shoe. His nails, however, were not manicured and scrubbed to a glossy clear sheen as one might expect. There were even a few scars on his knuckles, and his fingers, clasped for dear life around that cell phone, bore the signs of manual labor. The hands were an interesting juxtaposition to the fine suit and shiny shoes.

  "Mr. Downing, Lucy is a very smart girl, but if she has a chance of reaching her potential, she needs attention from her parents." I was getting up speed now, my previous bout with Mrs. Chippchase having warmed me up nicely. "She never has her homework in on time and has more tardies than anyone else in her year. In class she daydreams and does anything she can to get out of work. I have sent several letters regarding my concerns, and you respond to none of them."

  "But I'm not—"

  "Yes, I know, you haven't any time." I sighed, walking back to my desk. "We all have other things to do and other people to do them with, but we can’t avoid responsibilities forever. Lucy needs you, Mr. Downing. You should make an effort to participate in her education." I was getting a little too full of myself now, but since he stood there with his lips parted in a half-formed question, his eyes shooting out indignant little sparks, as if none of this was his fault and he had no idea what I was getting at, I decided I’d make it c
lear for him. Evidently someone had to take on the filthy rotten job, and it might as well be me, since I was already a marked woman. "And take an interest in her school." I grabbed the petition clipboard from my desk and held it out. "Perhaps you’d like to sign? We’re trying to keep the school open and stop the building from being purchased by some monstrous land developer."

  He’d followed me to my desk, frowned down at the petition and then at me. "So you’re the troublemaker."

  The door banged open and Lucy peeped in. "Are you done yet, Uncle Richard? I’m hungry."

  Uncle Richard? I suddenly forgot everything I had to say. His phone buzzed. He waited, tongue bulging in his cheek. Exasperated, I began tossing papers into my bag. Of course, he wouldn’t tell me I had the wrong man, would he? No. Just let the crazy woman make a fool of herself again! Well, I hoped he enjoyed himself at the expense of my time and patience.

  "The name, by the way, is Richard Downing. And that monstrous land developer would be me." He bared his teeth in a mirthless smile. "Small world, isn’t it?"

  RD Property Development was a fairly anonymous name. How could I have guessed? Lucy once mentioned she had an uncle who knocked things down. I simply thought she meant he had a violent temper. Or poor motor skills. Speechless, I continued fussing with books and papers.

  "My brother asked me to pick Lucy up from school today," he added, "but neglected to mention a meeting with her teacher. Typical of him, I’m afraid."

  I grabbed the empty aspirin bottle and threw it in the wastebasket.

  "I’ll relay your concerns to him," he added stiffly.

  "Wonderful."

  He hovered there a moment longer. I could practically hear the starch crackling. "I’m sorry about almost running you down that evening outside the dry cleaners," he grumbled suddenly. "I had a bad day."