“Have you slept with him?” Saffron was startled by his directness.
“No. We haven’t got anywhere near that stage. It’s not that type of relationship.”
“Can you tell me when you do reach that stage?”
“I’ve already told you that it isn’t that sort of relationship. I knew you were too mentally stunted to understand. Is my English clear enough for you now?”
Saffron noticed ash had fallen from his cigarette and was burning a hole in her rug. She rushed to stamp out the cinders. Bull walked out of the narrowboat, slamming the hatch door behind him. She’d thought back to previous experiences before other subjects of desire, as she called them. She hated the phrase boyfriend or partner, the former sounded childish, and the later seemed like a dull business arrangement. One subject of desire had called her a praying mantis – elaborating that she was a predatory insect that unsuspectingly pounces and devours its victim alive. She thought of herself more like a mayfly: ephemeral, but free and beautiful, finding a mate, living and loving, if only for a short but passionate passing of time before ultimately dying. Rather that than exist like two caged beasts, living out an unfulfilled and protracted life in acquiescent comfort. She believed if she compromised her beliefs her plans would unravel, and it was important that her plans didn't unravel.
Chapter 7: Leaders of Men
Andrew woke at first light to the sound of heavy rain pummelling the canopy of the life raft. The previous night had been a bleak experience for him. Despite the company, he had felt desperately alone, floating in the darkness with his ear tuned to the silence. He had only managed a few hours of broken sleep. He stuck his head through the aperture and surveyed the horizon for ships – nothing but grey sea. Curiously, he was distracted by the sight of a tennis ball, floating close to the raft. He returned his head to the shelter of the canopy and examined it, wondering what purpose it could serve. Finally, he cut the ball in half with his multi-tool to make two cups. He filled a cup with rainwater from the rain catch bladder and winced at the foul plastic taste. He had tasted worse, he thought. He crawled towards Malcolm and checked his condition – no change. He changed his bandages and then leant back on the pontoon and closed his eyelids.
Andrew allowed his mind to drift. He recalled the military training exercises where he had taught cadets how to filter muddied water by using a plastic bottle packed with sphagnum moss, how to catch and skin rabbits, build fires, erect shelters, and fend off relentless midge attacks. He had relished survival situations in the most challenging of environments, but could he compare the time spent in the Northumberland wilderness, up to his neck in muck and muscle, to his current situation: cast adrift in the ocean desert? He decided that the same principles would apply. He fantasised about his story being told in National Geographic or replayed by actors in a documentary.
Bull was lying at his feet, curled into the foetal position, trying to keep the chilled air from biting into his body. Some people act irrational and out of character, he thought. Was it possible that the Englishman’s annoying behaviour was a reaction to the dawning realisation that he was the victim of an incident, or was he merely naive? Survival situations can bring out the best or the worst in a person, but a leader always emerged. In any event the leadership issue was a pragmatic choice rather than a means to extract authority. The situation had been forced upon him. The situation required someone step forward and take command. He smiled, feeling pleased with his dabbler piece of field psychology. Andrew took hold of the bailer and began to scoop water from the floor of the raft, and then a sudden sharp pain emanated from one of his prolapsed haemorrhoids. There was time for a quick relieving scratch before Bull stirred from his slumber and caught him with his hand down the back of his trousers.
Andrew ignored Bull’s waking questions. Wasn’t it obvious enough that they hadn’t been rescued yet, or did it really matter what time of day it was, he thought. He had many tales of heroism itching to be told. He glared down at Bull’s form to find he had fallen back into a sleep. Andrew was too animated to let the moment slide. He directed a swift kick towards him. At first Bull didn’t flinch so he flicked stagnant seawater on his face. Again he failed to rouse him. He kicked him one more time, only harder. Bull cried out in shock rather than pain.
“Did you just kick me? asked Bull, stirring from his sleep, “I was having a nice dream about being back home for Sunday dinner. We were all down the Pig having a few pints, roast chicken and Yorkshire pudding…” Andrew interrupted him by pressing a forefinger to his lips. He said,
“I didn’t want to mention it yesterday, but I’ve been in a similar situation and survived.” Bull rubbed his eyes. He felt queasy and his muscles ached from the yesterday’s ordeal. He was in no mood to talk. His mouth was parched, his head throbbed and his stomach made pleading noises to be fed. “Where’s the water?” He said searching with his hand around the floor of the raft. Andrew filled one of the tennis ball cups with the water from the plastic bladder and passed it to Bull.
“It tastes like piss.” said Bull, screwing his face up in disgust.
“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never tasted piss and hopefully will never have to. It is clean water, it’s safe to drink and it will keep us alive until we get rescued.”
“Are you sure you didn’t take a piss in it?”
“No, why would I urinate in the drinking water?” Bull shrugged his shoulders, unable to come up with a plausible reason. He handed back the cup and said,
“So what exactly was so important that you had to wake me up?”
Andrew’s face became pensive. Bull braced himself for Andrew’s morning sermon, which he sensed was coming. He had neither the energy nor the willpower to resist his overtures. He sat up and bailed water from the floor of the raft. Andrew coughed to clear his throat and then he licked his dry lips. Here it comes, he thought.
“I was once marooned on an island with my uncle and my brother,” said Andrew. “It was after our yacht capsized. I forgot to shout, ready to jibe! My Uncle Alasdair got hit on the head with the swinging boom. It knocked him overboard and into the drink. He was unconscious and it was up to me to save him. You’ve already witnessed from before that I’m a strong swimmer. When I was young I used to swim against a boy who later went on to win a bronze medal at the Olympic Games. I regularly beat him.” Bull put down the makeshift water bailer and said,
“Are you sure you didn’t kick me?” Andrew groaned, as if in pain.
“Look, you’ve been oversleeping. It’s not good for you. I read somewhere that it causes headaches.”
“So you woke me from my dream to tell me you can swim. Good for you, can I go back to sleep now.”
“What were you expecting? Breakfast in bed?”
“Breakfast would be good actually. It might settle my stomach. What have you got?”
“Apart from soft prunes and bannock cake? Not much.”
Andrew rummaged around in the suitcase. He found the bag of prunes and threw one at Bull who caught it in his mouth. He took out his multi-tool and then cut a slice of bannock cake. He stretched over and handed the cake to Bull saying,
“Look, do you want to hear my story or not?” Bull mumbled his words through a mouth full of cake,
“If there’s a choice, I’ll plump for not.”
“Well you’re going to hear it anyway. As I said, my uncle was unconscious and it was up to me to save him and my brother. Graham was in an awful panic and he was unable to control the yacht after I dived in to rescue my uncle. Suddenly, the yacht capsized and he was in the drink too.” Bull interjected.
“Is there a point to this story? I’m a busy man and time is getting on. I’ve got a lot of interesting things to do today.” Bull sighed and looked upward as if seeking divine intervention.
“I’m sure you have but not before you have heard my story.”
“Is this going to take long?”
Andrew looked down at his boots. His story recital was not going to plan.
He watched as Bull bailed water with his brazier cup. He wondered if he was wasting his time and that his judgement was clouded by his belief that there is potential in everyone. He decided he would continue nonetheless. He said,
“Anyway, I managed to get us all to shore by dragging my uncle through the swells and by encouraging my brother – he was a weaker swimmer and lacked my confidence in the water. It was touch and go for quite a while out there, and I was always conscious of the depth of the water below and the blood dripping from my Uncle’s head wound as we thrashed around on the surface of the sea. I don’t mind admitting that the thought of a shark attack played heavily on my mind.”
Bull’s eyebrows rose in expectation when Andrew mentioned sharks. Andrew sensed he had Bull’s attention. He continued,
“When we got to shore, I dragged him over the sand, cut a swathe through the vegetation and made my uncle comfortable. I started a fire. I needed to keep him warm but also, just in case someone saw our signal and may have been in a position to rescue us. Luckily my uncle regained consciousness but to be honest, the situation was hopeless. I needed to set off and get help. He wanted to go himself but his ankle was broken, so I insisted that it was better for him to stay and look after my younger brother. It seemed like the best plan of action.”
Andrew paused again. He wanted to give Bull enough time to build a clear picture in his mind, and for himself to reflect on the magnitude of his heroism. The silence was only broken by the sound of the grab ropes tapping against the inflated pontoons.
“So there was no shark attack?” said Bull disappointedly.
“No, that was our only piece of good fortune. Can I continue?”
“Go on, if you must,” quipped Bull, now sitting back with his arms folded behind his head, waiting to be entertained. Suddenly, they heard a voice from the other side of the raft.
“Stop, stop this ma…it’s too late…” Bull edged towards Malcolm. He cupped his face in one hand and with the other he slapped his cheek gently. There was no further response. Bull turned back to Andrew.
“Was I hearing things or did he just come out of a coma to tell you to stop talking. Are you sure you don’t know him? It sounds like he’s heard this story before.”
“This is a new low for you isn’t it? Reduced to mocking a sick man,” replied Andrew with a sneer on his lips, “but if you must know he’s been making strange noises for some time now. You’re just usually asleep when he goes off on one.” Bull sniffed the air and said,
“The putrid smell inside this raft can’t be helping him.” Andrew opened the aperture and let some fresh air in. Bull said,
“Are you sure he’s unconscious, I mean people in comas don’t usually talk do they.” Andrew shook his head.
“I didn’t hear him talk. All I heard was some incoherent mumblings.”
“I think he was dreaming about his mother.”
“What gives you that idea?”
“He said, stop this ma.”
“He’s a bit old to be having dreams about his mother,”
“I have dreams about my mother all the time.”
“I think psychologists have a term for that.”
“I don’t have an Oedipus complex, if that’s what you’re implying. Anyway, you haven’t answered my question - do people in comas talk? I thought you were the man with all the answers?”
“There’s a thing called the Glasgow Coma Scale and I’ve only got basic medical training, but we once had a gillie on the estate who fell down a river bank and suffered a head injury…” Bull interrupted.
“One story at a time Sherlock,” he exclaimed.
Andrew waited patently, his lips pursed and his hands clasped resting on his legs, until Bull settled down. He continued his story.
“Anyway, after much persuasion, he agreed to let me go in his place...”
“Who did?” interrupted Bull, “the wounded gillie or your Uncle?”
“My Uncle,” replied Andrew through gritted teeth.
“So you’re uncle was the gillie?”
“No, my uncle wasn’t a gillie, that was another story I mentioned to explain the concept of coma.” Bull laughed.
“Alright, I’m with you now.” Andrew stared soberly at Bull. He said,
“So I set off with some meagre rations - a bottle of drinking water and a Tunnock’s tea cake. I had just turned eighteen but I was as fit as I am now, although much slighter of frame back then. My Grandfather used to say that I had the physique of a traveller’s dog: all ribs and cock.”
Bull’s eyes opened wide. He said,
“I don’t really know how to react to that last statement.”
“My journey took me through bushes, thickets and all sorts of hazardous vegetation. At one point I thought I was never going to make it.”
Finally, Bull heard a hint of emotion in Andrew’s crackling voice. He sat upright waiting for the flood gates to open. Andrew was inspired by Bull’s display of eagerness and proceeded to add a bit more sensation to his voice.
“Well I decided that I needed to be strong. After my uncle’s accident, everyone was relying on me. Even at that tender young age, I was already showing leadership qualities well beyond my years. It was a matter of practicalities you see.”
“So what happened next?” asked Bull eager for him to continue the story.
“Well, I came across some locals but not surprisingly they appeared to be hostile – I had stories about this part of the world. One of them even threw a projectile at me! I feared for my safety, so I decided to run and stay well clear of them. I wasn’t going to get any help there. I was pretty much left on my own, without a map or even a compass. The terrain was disorientating and the suppressive heat and humidity were combining to sap my energy levels. Nevertheless, I persevered and eventually reached civilisation where finally I managed to get help. Suffering from heat exhaustion and dehydration, I stumbled upon a phone box and one hour later, I returned with an ambulance, the Essex police and the Royal Coast Guard.” Bull’s face dropped as if consumed by gravity. He sighed,
“What do you mean a phone box, the police and the Coast Guard? Were they in the jungle looking for you?” Andrew said,
“I never said I was in the jungle. It was a hot summer’s day and we capsized off Canvey Island. It was the hottest day on record at the time. It was one hundred and three degrees Fahrenheit and the humidity was unbelievable. The incident made the Canvey Island Echo …” Bull held up his hand and said,
“It was hardly an ordeal, more of an accident involving you going for help. What about all your tales of the hostile locals?”
“Have you ever been to Canvey Island? It’s not the type of place strangers ask directions, especially if all you are wearing is thigh length khaki shorts, knee length socks and a pair of blue deck plimsolls.”
“Yes, I do know Canvey Island. It’s not even an island, sorry, was even an island. It was a peninsula before the floods, so once again Sherlock, what exactly is the point to your story? I hope there was a reason behind this long winded fable?”
“Well I believe that even at a young age, I showed good leadership skills during a time of emergency. I was an officer in the Territorial Army, I was Captain…” Bull raised his finger and stretching over pressed it against Andrew’s lips.
“I’m going back to sleep.” He said.
Chapter 8: New spring fades
2034. 18 months earlier
Saffron couldn't sleep. She lay alone in bed, looking at the ceiling. She had come to a decision. She regarded her existence in the universe as being enhanced by sharing her experiences with another human being, and not as her raison d´être. She considered that jealousy was perhaps a new emotion for Bull, and that he was finding its destructive powers difficult to handle. Bull had an inner strength rarely evident in previous subjects of desire, she thought. He had an aura of kindness about him. He was compassionate and had a wonderful, if somewhat immature sense of humour. She had tried to change him, but she ha
d taken him as far as she could. She had to admit to another failure. It was a shame it couldn’t last - her work with him was almost complete. It was now time to move on to her next project.
Bull returned from an evening at the St Mungo’s Arms, carrying a carton of Balti curry. He staggered into the living area after colliding with the companionway and collapsed on the sofa. He slept there for most of the night until later rolling onto the floor in an alcohol induced heap. When Saffron passed him in the morning she looked down to see him wrapped in her Myakka hand woven rug. She reminded herself that negative feelings were natural. She had explored the concept that those searching for completeness in their lives should capture these thoughts, and accept these feelings as part of the evolving process. Failings should be accepted as a human trait, she thought. Saffron knew it was wrong of her to judge him by her own standards - after all she had identified many failings of her own. Subjecting the same demands that she expected from herself was unfair. Examining his inebriated form she discovered a nasty cut to his head.
Saffron stepped into the toilet cubicle and opened the medicine cabinet, stopping only briefly to catch her reflection in the door mirror. She grabbed the first aid kit, opened it and found a bottle of liquid plaster. As she turned, she lost her balance, slipping on the collateral damage done by Bull’s drunken urinal misfire. Struggling to find her feet, she bemoaned the months of persuading him to urinate whilst sitting down. Saffron glared contemptuously at Bull as she walked over his sleeping carcass. She cleaned his wound and applied the plaster, picked up her hemp bag and left for her photography class.
We Float Upon a Painted Sea Page 8