Behind the Sun

by Deborah Challinor

  Liz smirked. ‘What’s the hurry? We got all day.’

  She dealt two hands and contemplated hers with a furrowed brow. Deciding which one she didn’t want, she threw it down and took a new one from the unplayed cards, then watched Rachel to see what she would do.

  Rachel’s mouth made a neat little cat’s bum as she studied her cards. She moved two to the left of the spread and one to the right, then threw one down. Liz threw down a card, her hand came out, hovered, and she picked up an unplayed card.

  Rachel threw down, picked up another unplayed card, Liz threw down and picked up Rachel’s card.

  ‘Stop!’ Bella Jackson barked, making everyone jump. She pointed at Liz. ‘This woman is cheating.’

  Liz glared at her. ‘I bloody are not! How dare ya?’

  ‘You are. That girl up there in the bunk is signalling to you.’

  Everyone turned to look. Louisa Coutts had flattened herself along the top bunk overlooking Rachel. She peered back, her eyes glittering in the candle and lamplight, then ducked her head.

  ‘I saw her signalling,’ Bella Jackson repeated impassively.

  ‘Ya bloody liar!’ Liz exploded.

  ‘I think not.’

  Their eyes locked for several long, poisonous seconds.

  ‘Right!’ Friday shouted. ‘Everyone behind Rachel and Parker the Cheat move out of the way. Come on, clear out!’

  ‘Why would she bother to do that?’ Harrie asked Sarah. ‘This is none of Bella Jackson’s business. What’s she got against Liz Parker?’

  Sarah shrugged. ‘Crew war? Who knows?’

  There was much jostling and climbing about as folk reluctantly repositioned themselves and the game was restarted. Rachel won it, making the score one all.

  Liz Parker’s cockiness had evaporated by the beginning of the third game. Sweat trickled out of her lank hair, damp patches had appeared in her armpits and there was a particularly rank smell coming off her. Rachel dealt and they studied their cards.

  They each discarded and picked up, discarded and picked up, attempting to determine by which cards were being thrown out what the other had in her hand and the suit being collected, which affected the value of the points. The pauses between each play grew longer and longer — and the onlookers increasingly enthralled.

  The tension was unbearable. Harrie couldn’t stand to watch any longer, but couldn’t push her way out of the tightly packed crowd. Instead she kept her eyes on Friday, watching Liz Parker like a kestrel in case she cheated again. Sarah’s gaze, though, was fixed on Rachel, willing her to win.

  Harrie risked a quick, squinty peek at Rachel’s face, sending her a blast of love and good luck. She glanced up and smiled, more relaxed and confident now.

  Not long after that she lay her cards on the table. ‘Five High, suit of diamonds. I win.’

  The prison deck went mad. Friday screeched in elation and hauled Rachel off her bench and wrapped her in a huge bear hug, breaking off only to jerk up two fingers at Liz. Sarah and Harrie surrounded Rachel, enfolding her in their arms, and the four of them leapt up and down, jumping on people’s toes, yelling and crowing in triumphant delight.

  Liz Parker rose, spat on Bella Jackson’s expensive playing cards, and shoved her way out of the throng.

  The Isla hove to the next morning, sailing through the calm waters of Solent Strait between the Isle of Wight and the Hampshire coast, then out into the English Channel. As they passed the southern-most tip of Cornwall, Amos Furniss rather nastily let it be known among the women that Lizard Head would be their very last sight of England, and they all crowded the starboard rail for a final glimpse of their homeland’s diminishing coastline.

  Harrie and Rachel both wept bitterly; Sarah watched for a while then muttered, ‘Shithole,’ and went below again; but Friday remained silent. She would miss her friends, of course, especially Betsy, but there would be new opportunities in New South Wales. There always were new opportunities if you kept your eyes and ears open.

  As the Isla sailed beyond sight of England, Rachel’s beloved dog Shannon sat beneath his tree at the Winter family farm outside Guildford and howled loudly enough to disturb the dead in their graves.

  Flora Winter, looking out of the window, said to her husband, ‘For God’s sake, Edgar, go and do something about that dog.’

  Edgar, who had listened to his wife weeping almost constantly since they’d missed seeing the ship carrying their daughter set sail from Woolwich, and had wept nearly as much himself, put on his boots and trudged out into the yard.

  Shannon turned his head to see who was coming, and patiently accepted Edgar’s comforting scratch between his ears.

  ‘Aye, you miss her, too, don’t you, boy?’

  Shannon couldn’t answer, but he did. He missed his lovely mistress very much.

  Out in the rougher open seas of the North Atlantic, seasickness recurred in those whose constitutions were slow to adapt and James Downey once more asked Harrie and Lil Foster to assist him in the hospital. Rachel and Sarah felt merely off-colour but Friday was brought low a second time and again announced she was to be left alone to die. Even Rachel’s triumph and the return of their money (delivered by a sour Becky Hoddle while Liz Parker sulked threateningly from her crew’s bunk) had lost the power to cheer her. The ship’s exaggerated pitch and roll convinced her they were all about to perish shortly anyway and, though she tried, between vomiting and groaning, to make a joke of it, her friends could see she was terrified out of her wits.

  Rachel thought back to all the times in Newgate Friday had stuck up for her — and even raised a fist for her — and wished she could do something to make her feel better. Then smelly old Matilda Bain told her how she might cure at least one of Friday’s maladies.

  She waited until Harrie was at work and everyone not ill had gone up on deck, then slipped below again. Poor Friday was asleep, muttering and tossing, and Rachel took care not to wake her as she made her way towards the closed curtains surrounding Bella Jackson’s makeshift compartment. Bella rarely left it, pleasing herself when she took her exercise, apparently not caring a jot about the captain’s and Mr Downey’s schedules.

  Feeling very nervous about encroaching on Bella’s private territory, Rachel took a deep, preparatory breath. But just then the ship gave a violent lurch and she lost her balance and fell through the curtains, sprawling across Bella’s bunk.

  Bella Jackson, lying on several pillows, reading a book by candlelight, gave a startled squawk and drew her legs up to her chest. ‘God almighty, you clumsy little fool!’

  Rachel scrambled to her feet. ‘Sorry, I overbalanced.’ Lord, she’d never get what she wanted now.

  ‘Well, fall over somewhere else,’ Bella cawed, her black eyes flashing. Her expression softened. She regarded Rachel thoughtfully, and put down her book. ‘You’re the broadswoman. Rachel Winter, isn’t it? In the same crew as —’

  ‘Friday and Harrie and Sarah, yes. And Janie and Sally, but you know them.’ Rachel was chattering but she couldn’t help it. She was gazing at Bella’s lovely embroidered robe and all the nice things she had on the shelves around her bunk. And at her slippered feet; they were so pale. And she had no hair at all on her lower legs, or her forearms, for that matter. How fascinating.

  Bella tucked her feet under her robe. ‘Shouldn’t you be up on deck with everyone else? Or are you feeling poorly?’ The harsh tone had gone from her voice and she no longer reminded Rachel of an irate crow.

  ‘No, I feel very well, thank you. I wanted to…It was you I was hoping to speak to, Mrs Jackson.’

  Bella gave a low, throaty laugh and patted the mattress. ‘Sit down, Rachel, make yourself comfortable. And it’s not missus — I’m a dried-up old spinster. Call me Bella. How can I help you?’

  Rachel blinked: this wasn’t what she’d expected at all. Gingerly she sat on the end of the bunk.

  ‘Close the curtains, there’s a good girl,’ Bella said.

  Rachel twitched the curtains
shut.

  ‘There we are, nice and cosy.’ Bella reached for a small box on a shelf and offered it to Rachel. ‘Turkish delight, my favourite. Would you like some?’

  The delicate scent of rose drifted up into Rachel’s nostrils and her mouth watered immediately. It had been a long time since she’d had a proper sweet. She selected the biggest piece, white confectioner’s sugar coating her fingers, and bit into it, relishing the sensation of the firm, slightly squeaky jelly sliding over her teeth. ‘It’s really delicious,’ she said.

  Bella took a piece for herself and popped it into her wide mouth, the sugar leaving a white trace on her red-stained lips. Her tongue snaked out and licked it off.

  Rachel had a horrible thought. She blurted, ‘You’re not…I’m not…I’m sorry, but I like men.’

  Bella laughed and a puff of sugar blew out of the Turkish delight box. ‘And I like Turkish delight. Don’t worry, Rachel, you’re safe with me.’

  Rachel stifled her sigh of relief. ‘Thank you for dobbing in Liz Parker the other day. I would have lost all three games if you hadn’t.’

  ‘My pleasure, Rachel. You’re a very good player.’ Bella gave an odd little smile. ‘And I can’t abide a cheat. Now, what did you want to speak to me about?’

  ‘I have a friend who’s terrified of being at sea. I heard that you might have —’

  ‘Which friend? Harrie, Friday or Sarah?’

  ‘I don’t want to say.’ Telling Bella would be too…intimate, like breaking a trust. It didn’t feel right.

  ‘Go on, Rachel.’ Bella reached out and touched Rachel’s knee conspiratorially. ‘You can tell me, surely?’

  ‘Really, I just can’t.’

  Bella sat back. ‘I understand. What did you hear?’

  ‘Matilda Bain said you had some cauls for sale. To stop people from drowning?’

  ‘Yes, though I’ve sold several already.’

  Rachel’s heart plummeted. ‘Oh. Are there any left? I can pay.’

  ‘There might be. For the right person. I would need to know who, though.’

  Rachel pulled at a button on her jacket; the thread broke and the button came off. She put it in her pocket. ‘It’s for Friday.’

  Slowly, Bella nodded. ‘Friday Woolfe is very important to you, isn’t she?’

  Rachel said yes, unable for some reason to meet Bella’s gaze. This, too, felt somehow like a betrayal and a tiny pang of doubt pricked her.

  ‘Well, in that case, of course you may have one.’

  ‘Really? Oh, thank you! How much will you want?’

  Bella waved a slim, white hand. ‘You can have it. I won’t charge you.’

  ‘But…why not?’

  ‘Because it must have taken a lot of courage for you to come and talk to me. And because a kindness deserves a kindness. And because I like you.’

  ‘That is kind of you!’ Rachel said, startled but delighted. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘You’re more than welcome.’

  Wrapping her silk robe tightly around her thin body, Bella unlocked one of the two trunks occupying part of the bunk. Peeking surreptitiously over her shoulder, Rachel saw that the trunk was partitioned: one side contained a vast array of bottles and jars and packets and small boxes and bulging cloth bags, and the other held a collection of fashionable footwear and a large padlocked strongbox. From the latter, Bella took a folded sheet of heavy paper, locking both strongbox and trunk again immediately.

  ‘Here you are,’ she said, handing the paper to Rachel.

  It was foolscap-sized and on it was a large brown splodge where a fine layer of skin, almost transparent in places, had been pressed and dried. Here and there bits had lifted and were flaking where the paper had been creased, and in the bottom left corner was something that looked like a flattened rat’s tail. Rachel made a face and folded the paper again. It didn’t look much but she knew its power.

  ‘Would you like some more Turkish delight to take with you?’ Bella asked, offering the box again. ‘Here, help yourself.’

  Rachel took several more pieces, eating one straight away. ‘Thank you — and thank you for the caul. I know Friday will appreciate it,’ she said through a mouthful of sticky, rose-flavoured sweet.

  ‘You’re welcome. How old did you say you are, Rachel?’

  ‘I’m fifteen.’

  ‘Well, you’re a very pretty little thing. Close the curtains after you, won’t you?’

  Bella Jackson is really rather nice, Rachel reflected as she made her way back along the aisle, licking her fingers. Nothing like the nasty, calculating queen of vice everyone has been saying she is. Nothing at all.

  That evening, before dinner, Rachel crawled onto the bunk beside Friday’s prostrate body, prodded her alarmingly concave belly and said excitedly, ‘Wake up, sleepyhead, I’ve got you a present.’

  Harrie, having an hour off from her duties in the hospital, shared a mystified glance with Sarah. They lay down their cards expectantly.

  Friday opened one bloodshot eye; Rachel handed her a folded square of paper.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Open it and see,’ Rachel said, almost unable to contain herself.

  Friday fumbled open the heavy paper. She stared uncomprehendingly for a long moment, then exclaimed, ‘Rachel! Where did you get this?’

  Sarah lurched off the bench, was launched sideways by a roll of the ship, righted herself, and squinted at the object in Friday’s hand. ‘What the hell is it?’

  Harrie peered over her shoulder. ‘I know what it is. It’s a —’

  ‘It’s a caul!’ Rachel interrupted, thrilled with herself. ‘So now you don’t need to worry about drowning and you can concentrate on not being sick instead!’

  Trying valiantly to ignore her nausea, Friday heaved herself onto one elbow and tilted the paper to better catch the feeble light from the lamp. It was said that an infant born with a caul over its head would be forever safeguarded against drowning and that the possession of such a caul would give the bearer the same immunity. So they were harvested when the child was born, usually by the midwife who would carefully lay a sheet of paper or parchment over the infant’s head and face and press the caul onto it. If done too roughly, the removal of the membrane could wound the child and leave scars, or the caul itself might tear. Some mothers kept the caul as an heirloom; others sold them. They were very popular with sailors. But who had sold this one to Rachel?

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Don’t you like it?’ Rachel sounded doubtful.

  Friday looked at her friend and her heart sank. The delighted smile was fading. ‘It’s the best present anyone’s ever given me, really it is. It doesn’t matter what happens now: I know I’ll be safe. Thank you.’ She sat up and gave Rachel a peck on the cheek, holding her breath to avoid wafting the smell of vomit all over her. ‘You’re a real little sweetheart and I’m really grateful for it, I really am. But where did you get it, love?’

  ‘I was given it.’

  ‘By one of the sailors?’ Harrie asked tersely. Friday could see by her worried expression she was wondering what Rachel might have traded for it.

  ‘No, by Bella Jackson.’

  Harrie let out a sigh of relief.

  Friday turned back to Rachel, thoroughly nonplussed. ‘Bella Jackson gave you a caul?’

  Rachel nodded.

  ‘She just walked up to you and gave it to you?’

  ‘No, silly, I asked her for it. Matilda Bain said she had some for sale and I wanted to buy one from her but she said she didn’t want any money. She was very kind to me.’

  ‘That was kind of her,’ Harrie said.

  Friday lay back and rested her forearm across her eyes. She would give anything for this bloody seasickness to go away. God, what had Rachel done? It was just like her — scatty one minute, extraordinarily considerate the next. She might not have paid money, but the silly girl would pay a price for it sooner or later: it was the way the Bella Jacksons of the world worked. The
y relied on having people in their debt and ultimately they gave nothing away. As soon as she was back on her feet she was going to drag Bella Jackson out of that stupid compartment thing she was hiding in and punch the living daylights out of her. What did she think she was doing, taking advantage of someone as young and gulpy as Rachel? Rachel might have thought she was doing a lovely thing, but even if what was stuck on that paper truly was a caul from a human baby and not just some pig’s afterbirth, it still wouldn’t stop Friday sinking to the bottom of the ocean along with everyone else if the Isla was destined to founder. Everyone on the Isla would need one to stop that from happening. Oh God, when was this sickness going to go away?

  ‘Friday?’ Rachel said, looking hopefully down at her. ‘Do you think you might feel a bit better now, knowing you can’t drown?’

  Friday took Rachel’s hand and squeezed. ‘Much better, sweetie, thank you. You’re a proper little angel, you are.’

  Rachel beamed and tucked the paper under Friday’s pillow.

  The ship’s bell rang, signalling that supper was ready for the mess captains to collect.

  ‘Will you be able to eat anything?’ Harrie asked Friday.

  Friday said no; if she tried she knew she’d only heave it up again. It was bad enough just having to smell it.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Harrie went on. ‘There might be pudding with raisins. Not even a little bit of that?’

  Friday wished Harrie would shut up. She knew she was only trying to help, and that Harrie was worried about her, but it was wearing her down. On the other hand, it was nice to be fussed over; she didn’t want that to stop. Also, hurting Harrie’s feelings would be really unkind, even if Harrie were being really naive about Bella Jackson’s behaviour.

  ‘Maybe in the morning, eh? I might be feeling better by then.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ Harrie said doubtfully.

  ‘Go on, or Sarah’ll scoff the lot.’

  While the others ate, Friday lay with the blanket over her face to block out the smell of pease pudding, thinking about Bella Jackson and getting angry again. So angry, in fact, she decided to do something about it tonight, seasickness be buggered.