Later that day, fighting the symptoms of the previous nights over indulgences, Bull called his work to say he was ill and would be taking the rest of the day off. He went for a walk in the Botanic Gardens, stopping off to see the timber wolves looking out from their sanctuary. He explained his troubles with Saffron to the dumbfounded beasts. When the wolves became antagonised and aggressive an unsympathetic Park Keeper asked him to move on. He returned home to Maryhill Locks. Stepping onto the narrowboat, he overheard Saffron talking in the galley. He peered through the porthole. He could see an older woman, perhaps Saffron’s mother he thought, at last, I will get to meet her. He listened to the conversation.
“We don’t even have to say much to each other,” said Saffron, “but instinctively we know how each other are feeling and that is enough.”
Bull smirked, deluding himself that Saffron was listing some of his virtues. Perhaps at odds with yesterday’s outburst, thought Bull. He nodded in agreement when she described the kindness and sensitivity that he often aspired to, and even adding a few suggestions of his own to her list. He stepped onto the upper deck and continued to eavesdrop but was overcome with a new found modesty, even questioning some of the perceived qualities regarding his background. Salford was culturally rich and diverse but he would hardly describe it as mystical, although he had heard that Eccles Parish Church was haunted. Saffron persisted, “You know how I’ve always needed someone like him in my life. I think he might be the one. I only hope that Faerrleah will understand. I don’t think he likes the idea of Maurice and me very much.”
When Bull heard Maurice’s name, he dropped his door keys onto the deck in disbelief. When Saffron heard the clang of metal on wood above her head, she changed the conversation stating, “So an infusion of comfrey, burdock and evening primrose may cure his rash...” Finally, Saffron walked out through the hatch and up the steps to the upper deck. She blinked when she came into the daylight. She watched Bull sitting on the bench, his head in his hands. She waited for him to face her. She wanted to see his expression and gauge his mood. After a moment of silence, she said,
“Did you bang your head again? How is you're head. I cleaned and plastered it while you were sleeping.” Bull didn’t answer. Saffron looked at his head, to examine the wound but the plaster had gone and there was no scaring - not even a bruise. Continuing to look at his head in disbelief, she continued,
“My mother is here if you want to meet her? She has given me an herbal remedy for your eczema.” She held her hand up to her eyes which were squinting in the glare of the light which threatened to break from behind the clouds. “It isn’t eczema,” said Bull churlishly.
Bull fidgeted on the edge of his seat, his mind filled with rambling paranoia and agonising scenarios of Saffron and Maurice in intimate positions. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. He stared out onto the algae blooms floating on the water and the multicoloured row of narrowboats lining the canal. Saffron tried to explain that whatever he thought, all he had heard was half a conversation and that they needed to talk. When Saffron put her hand on his shoulder, he brushed her off. He stood, up and walked down the steps and out, onto the moorings. “I know you’re confused Faerrleah but we need to talk. There are a few things I need to explain to you,” shouted Saffron. Bull walked away. Saffron watched him saunter along the moorings towards the bridge. Out of sight, she wiped the tears from her face. She became engulfed in a new emotion of guilt. She questioned the path she had taken with Bull. She questioned herself.
She sat sobbing until her mother joined her, offering her a comforting arm and a kiss on the cheek. Saffron turned to her mother and said, “I just can’t do this anymore, it’s too hard.”
“I know dear. I understand,” replied Saffron’s mother.
“That’s the problem, you don’t understand. No one does?” Saffron’s mother gave her a handkerchief and then left. Later, Saffron went below to the galley. She lit her pipe and made a cup of herbal tea. A mobile phone rang in Bull’s jacket pocket. She picked it up and examined the device. It looked antiquated. I haven’t seen one of these in years, she thought. She blocked the 3D projection and listened to the voicemail: “Hi, it’s Fergus, hope you’re feeling better? I’m sorry but we need you to go back to Reykjavik and carry out some more tests on those drill sites. They are not happy with your model results, the ones that identified pipe fatigue in the bearings and sealing systems. It’s going to cost them and you know the oil industry, always squealing about being under so much financial pressure. We need you to re-run the model but this time we need more favourable results. Call me when you get this message.” Saffron ended the call.
That night Bull slept on the sofa and in the morning he left for Iceland. He called Saffron from Reykjavik airport to apologise for walking away and not staying to talk things through. Saffron seemed cold and distant. He was glad that the visual communicator wasn’t working on his Shackle. He didn’t want to see her cry. She said,
“This isn’t really working out the way I had imagined it would. We’re not the people we think we are. I’ve been trying to change you but I have no right to expect that from you.” A bubble of panic rose up within Bull’s stomach. He felt sick but somehow still managed to speak. His words were laced with nervousness.
“I’m sorry. I’ve being childish but I see that now. I was jealous and foolish. Look, I need to go. I’ve got more ice bores samples to analyse before they can build the new flood barrier up here. I’ll see you at the Naked Bike Ride for Climate Change in Glasgow Green tomorrow tonight and we can talk then, if you like? I love you Saffron.”
The line went dead. During the conversation with Saffron he had noticed a young girl sitting beside him and listening into his conversation. He winked at her but to save himself any further embarrassment, he continued talking into the communicator. “Yes, well, I’ve tried to be fair but enough is enough. I’m not a man to be trifled with. I’ll say no more on the subject.” Bull pretended to hang up the communicator and turning to the girl said, “That’s women for you. Don’t you grow up to be like her?” The girl looked up and in perfect English, replied,
“She hung up on you, a while ago, didn’t she? You can tell by the light on the top of the com changing from green to red. Call her back, I want to see her 3D projection – I bet she’s really ugly, if you’re anything to go by.” Bull frowned at the young girl and said,
“She’s beautiful if you must know but more importantly she’s a very good person.” The little girl smiled and said,
“Why is she with you then? You lied.”
“I didn’t lie.” The little girl pointed to the com and said,
“You did, you pretended she was listening and she wasn’t. You’re not a nice man.”
“Neither are you!”
“Ha, ha you think I’m a man. You can’t tell the difference between boys and girls. You’re a big freak.” Tears began to well up in Bull’s eyes. “Ha, ha and now you’re starting to cry. You can’t even beat an eleven year old in an argument.” Finally Bull said, “Didn’t your parents teach you not to eavesdrop on adults conversations?” The girl’s father approached and led her away by the hand. Then she stopped and turned back, repeatedly jerking her fist. Bull sunk his head into his hands. He wondered if his secret was out.
The following day Bull returned to Glasgow from Reykjavik. Thinking of Saffron’s lecture on using low emission transport, he took a skytran from the airport to the Salt Market and picked up a rented bicycle. An air quality warning had been issued, so he put his respirator on and wheeled the short distance down to Glasgow Green. The Naked Bike Ride for Climate Change was already under way when he arrived. Bull stuffed all his clothes in a plastic bag and placed it on the wet ground. He called Saffron on his Shackle but only found her voicemail. He was naked apart from his respirator mask. It started to rain. He mounted his rented bike and waited for Saffron amongst the hundreds of nude cyclists. He waited for over an hour but Saffron failed to appear. The last c
yclist departed and he was alone and naked, with only his bike for company.
He felt like an abandoned child at a fun park. He wanted to go home, hoping Saffron would be there. He looked for his belongings but they were gone. Bull approached a police officer and asked if he had come across a plastic bag with his clothes. The police officer grunted,
“I saw a gang of neds kicking a bag around like a football, about twenty minutes ago.”
“What’s a NED?” asked Bull.
“A Non Educated Delinquent. One of them sent the bag skyward, over the bridge and into the Clyde.”
“And you just stood there and watched them?”
“It’s not in my job description to jump into rivers to retrieve clothes discarded by their civilian owners.”
Bull cycled naked along the Clyde Walkway, in the opposite direction of the other cyclists, and back towards Maryhill Locks. When eventually arrived home he opened the hatch to the narrowboat, taking care not to bang his head on the companionway. It took a while for him to realise that Saffron had left. He went back through the hatch and onto the moorings to see if her bicycle was still there. It was gone. He returned below. This time he banged his head. He screamed out in pain, “Bollocks!” he shouted. He heard someone shout from a flat above the narrowboat,
“Put some claes on big man, you’re puttin me aff ma meatballs!” Bull ignored the man and returned inside.
At first sight, there were no obvious signs that Saffron had left. He stood for a while, alone in the lounge area, marinated in the Glasgow rain. In his hand, he held weeds that he had picked for her on the way home. They filled the air with a mousey aroma, and he was convinced the sap from one of the plants was burning his fingers. He walked through the galley and into the sleeping quarters. Most of her possessions were still there, he thought. Turning back towards the lounge, he sensed something was missing – it wasn’t the embroidered Boho cushions, the totem or the patchwork Batik tassel throw from the sofa - he realised their pet terrapin, Boris was gone from his cage.
A note lay on the coffee table, weighted down by one of the glass pebble wishing stones that he had bought her from an Inuit market - the stone was inscribed, trust. The note started, Dear Faerrleah, and explained that she was a free spirit and likened their lives to a stone being thrown into a still pool and that there were troughs and peaks but eventually everything returns to calm. She explained that through her Yoga she had visualised all her objectives in an attempt to make them come true in life, and he didn’t harmonise with any of them. She described how they had both become stifled by their situation and needed to find their true purpose in life. She elucidated that she couldn’t deal with negative feelings of possessiveness and jealousy but most of all she couldn’t live a lie anymore. Then she wrote something he didn’t fully understand: that they were miniature parts of a larger machine but the machine was grinding to a halt and removing herself may help unjam it and help him find his true purpose. She had also given him back the pop-up scratch and sniff Kama Sutra book that he had given her for her birthday. Bull struggled to comprehend the contents of the letter, reading it over and over until his eyes welled up with tears. There was no mention of Maurice in the letter.
Chapter 9: One enchanted evening
Bull woke to the sound of a ditty. He raised his hand, protecting his eyes from the glare of the daylight filtering through the orange canopy of the life raft. There was a fetid smell inside the life raft, making his gut wrench. At first his eyes couldn’t focus but in due course he honed in on Andrew squeezing the hand-inflator slowly but purposefully. His lips were puckered as he whistled. He stopped.
“Do you swim?” asked Andrew nonchalantly. Bull looked back with a look of mischief in his eye. Bull examined his surroundings in disbelief that he was still on the raft and it hadn’t been a bad dream.
“No,” he said, “I just floated like a beach ball onto the raft.” Andrew looked at Bull curiously, suspecting that he was toying with him.
“I didn’t ask if you can swim, I know you can swim. Even a dog can swim. I asked do you swim, say, competitively or for enjoyment, back home, wherever that part of the world may be.” Bull returned Andrew’s stare. “Why are we sinking? Andrew sighed,
“No, we’re not sinking, you fool. I’m just making polite conversation but if you would rather…” Bull interrupted,
“And calling someone a fool is your idea of making polite conversation.” Andrew grimaced,
“It’s just a turn of phrase, my apologies.”
“I can do a couple of lengths of my virtual swimming pool.”
“Virtual swimming isn’t real swimming.”
“It feels real enough when you’re hooked up to the hardware.”
“Still, you can’t substitute the feel of the water against your skin or the sensation of weightlessness as you glide through the water.”
“You’ve obviously never tried VR have you?”
“I have, but only military training VR, not for leisure. It makes me feel queasy if truth be told.”
“I have the same affliction with the sea. If I’m going to swim, the sea would be my last choice.” The first waking exchanges were becoming predictable, thought Bull. Andrew would force a pathetic smile and commence his verbal ramble, impatient to release the mental pressure that had been rising as Bull slept.
“Weren’t you scared of drowning when the ship capsized?”
“I was petrified. Weren’t you?” Andrew clasped his hands and rocked his body back and forth in time with the motion of the raft, buffeted by the ocean swells. He said, “I’ve been trained to deal with fear and to channel my emotions. I was an officer in the army.”
“You said before but the operative word being Was? So you left.”
“No, I was medically discharged. This isn’t about my military past.”
“What is it about then?” There was a protracted moment of silence. Finally, Andrew said, “I developed a medical problem that I would rather not discuss, but after my M.D, I joined the Territorials as a training officer.”
“I’ve never met anyone from the T.A. but then again I only socialise at weekends.”
“We didn’t just train at the weekend you know, but I suspect you already knew that and were just being facetious again. We saw action in Sudan and Iran.” Andrew rolled his neck until he heard a click.
“You want kudos for fighting in another oil war?”
“We didn’t invade those counties because of oil. We were liberating the people from oppression and giving them democracy.”
“Liberating their natural resources you mean and installing puppet governments dependent on the West - democracy with conditions. Funny how we only liberate countries with oil isn’t it?”
“I take it you don’t drive a car or fly or use electricity or wear waterproof clothing or anything else made from oil derivatives?”
“As you can see I’m into natural fabrics.” Bull looked down at his improvised sarong.
“Without oil, the world would grind to a halt. Is that what you want?”
“Oil is the putrid fucking diseased lifeblood of the world,” said Bull sighing heavily. He picked up the homemade bailer and toyed with it.
“I see you are a Covenanter,” said Andrew gazing at the green bracelet on Bull’s wrist.
“What if I am? I can see you’re a Denier.”
“I can see the subject upsets you.”
“Yes, the systematic destruction of the environment does make me a little uptight. I would have hoped that one day, if I ever had children, they would be born into a better fucking world than this.”
“There are better ways to relieve your stress than using profanity.”
“Don’t I fucking know it, and if you weren’t on this boat, I would indulge in a few more of them.” Andrew huffed and continued,
“Anyway, your protests are a waste of time. The world economy revolves around oil and gas. It’s a fact of life that you cannot deny. You all use fossil fuels but y
ou still run the industry down. I don’t understand your kind.”
“I wouldn’t imagine you could. You Deniers are myopic, you can only see as far as the next financial year. And don’t talk to me about consuming fossil fuels; choices are limited by design, for economic reasons. We don’t opt for oil or gas, we have little choice.”
“It’s a natural resource that God has given us to use.”
“Are you using God to justify mankind's recklessness?” The raft fell silent with the exception of the rain pelting the canopy and the waves lapping against the pontoon. Finally, Andrew said,
“I can see where this conversation is going and I refuse to be dragged there. Let’s just agree to disagree and leave it at that shall we?”
“As you wish, Sherlock.”
The life-raft drifted aimlessly, the wind and ocean currents battling for the right to take control of its destiny. From time to time they would unzip the aperture and gaze out to the vast and featureless expanse of wilderness. On the horizon they could make out the twisted remains of an abandoned oil rig, shattered by the wave, its pillars decaying in the ocean, like the carcass of a once colossal animal. At one point they thought they had spotted land but the excitement was quelled when the contour changed shape and dispersed. Both men took turns to check on Malcolm’s condition, drizzling freshwater into his mouth on a regular basis. Blood oozed from under his dressing, trickling down his back and discolouring the stagnant water collecting on the floor of the raft. Andrew changed Malcolm’s bandages using the last piece of the shredded cotton skirt and a sanitary towel from the suitcase. Andrew threw the soiled bandages overboard after Bull complained of the pungent odour.
We Float Upon a Painted Sea Page 9