Will debated whether to grab a few beers before returning on board. Once, he would have headed straight to the fleshpots of the city and sought out a woman, returning to the ship the following day at the last possible moment. Instead he decided to find Paolo and let him know how warm and welcoming his family had been – even if there had been a complete inability on both sides to understand a word of each other’s languages.
Hearing the sound of running footsteps behind him, he hesitated, suddenly cautious. Naples was renowned for its pickpockets and robbers and Will had no wish to be found with his throat cut in a deserted alleyway. He moved to stand with his back against the wall, close to a pool of light from an upstairs window, turning to face the person following him.
It was a young woman, her face illuminated by the light. ‘Signore. Wait. Please.’ She reached out to touch his sleeve. ‘I am Loretta. Friend of Paolo.’
She was about twenty, with long, almost black, hair sweeping over her shoulders, and cautious eyes in a face that reminded him of one of the many statues of the Virgin Mary that crowded shop windows all over Naples. Wearing a simple cotton dress, low-cut and fitted close to her body, her breasts were rising and falling visibly as she regained her breath.
He held out a hand in greeting. ‘I’m William. You speak good English, Loretta.’
She shrugged, brushing off the compliment. ‘Please to give this to Paolo and say him Loretta wait for him.’ She pressed something into his hand, then ran back the way she had come, disappearing into the network of narrow streets.
It was a small silver chain with a locket. A cheap trinket. Possibly made of tin, but nonetheless precious to its owner. Slipping it into his pocket, he headed to the ship, stopping to buy a couple of bottles of beer on the waterfront. He stuffed them in the haversack, on top of the jar of homemade tomato sauce and the carefully wrapped pastries Signora Tornabene had given him for Paolo.
How would it feel to have a mother to cook treats for you? To worry about you? A girl prepared to wait, no matter how long, for you to come back and marry her; he presumed that was what Loretta had meant when she said she would wait for Paolo. If Will was drowned at sea, who would mourn him? Possibly Rafqa – but she was realistic enough to know there was no possibility of a future for them.
* * *
He found Paolo sitting on the fo’c’s’le, his back against one of the big black drums of the windlass. The Italian was staring miserably at the bay of Naples, his gaze towards Vesuvius and the area where his family lived. Will climbed up and sat down beside him, handing him a bottle of beer.
They chinked their bottles together.
‘You are back soon. You see la famiglia?’ Paolo’s expression was worried.
‘Of course I’ve seen them. That’s why I came straight back. I didn’t feel like going drinking tonight.’ He let out a long sigh. ‘You have a wonderful family, Paolo. So warm and welcoming. Meeting them made me sad that I have no family of my own. I was feeling lonely so I thought I’d come and find you so we can both feel lonely together.’ He pulled a tragi-comic face.
Paolo laughed. ‘Did you give them i regali – the gifts?’
‘Yes, they loved all of them. Your grandmother was very taken with her giraffe. It made her cry with joy.’
‘Madonna! Mi manca la nonna.’
‘Give the lingo a rest, mate. I spent the whole evening trying to work out what they were all saying, but was none the wiser.’
‘I said that I miss my grandmother. We are very close.’ He rubbed his eyes, turning his head as he did so, in an effort to prevent Will noticing that he was on the verge of tears.
‘She’s a good egg, your nonna. Well, the whole bloody lot of them are, actually. And the tucker was great. I haven’t eaten that well in years. Talking of which—’ He pulled the packages out of his rucksack and handed them to his friend, who took them with whoops of joy.
‘You will eat with me tomorrow, my friend.’ He held up the jar of tomato sauce. ‘I will cook the pasta – la mamma has a special recipe for her sauce.’ He kissed his fingers. ‘The best pomodori in the world grow on the slopes of Vesuvio.’
‘There’s more.’ Will handed him the paper-wrapped pastries.
Paolo squeezed his hands into fists and waved them in the air. ’Sfogliatelle. Now I die happy!’
When Paolo had calmed, Will reached inside his pocket and handed him the locket. ‘After I left your folks, I ran into your friend Loretta and she asked me to give this to you.’
It was as if the bubble had been pricked: Paolo’s ebullient mood deflated.
Will, conscious of the change in mood, said, ‘She must have followed me from your parents’ place. She told me to give you a message.’
Paolo looked away.
‘Look, mate, I didn’t know you didn’t want to have anything to do with her. I had no choice. She just came up to me from nowhere.’
Paolo said nothing.
‘She asked me to say that she’s going to wait for you. That was all.’
‘She said that?’
Will nodded.
Paolo’s head was still turned away, facing seaward now. Will realised that he was weeping, silently.
Uncertain what to say, he tried to make light of the situation. ‘She’s a real looker, that Loretta. You’ve done well there, mate.’
Paolo turned to him, his eyes glistening with the held-back tears. ‘We can never be together. Her famiglia will not permit it.’
‘Well, you need to tell her fameelia to go take a long walk off a short pier.’
Paolo’s forehead creased in puzzlement.
Will quickly said, ‘Never mind, I was only trying to say you don’t want to pay attention to her family. If you and she think a lot of each other, all power to your elbows.’
Paolo shook his head. ‘Her family has much power. My elbows have no chance against the Camorra.’
‘You’ve lost me there, cobber.’
‘They are powerful people, but bad people. Loretta’s father is important in the Camorra. He wants Loretta to marry with another Camorrista.’
‘You saying they’re criminals?’
Paolo gave a dry laugh. ‘The worst. And now that Mussolini tries to stop the Camorra and the Mafia and all the other criminal gangs, some of them have joined the Blackshirts so they can carry on their crimes from the inside.’
‘I ran into some Blackshirts on the way to see your family.’
‘Stronzi! They are the shit of the dogs. I hope you stay away from them?’
Will nodded. ‘They looked a bunch of thugs. I kept well clear.’
‘Cazzo! I hate these people. They want to destroy my country.’ He slammed his fist against the metal drum. ‘And the brothers of my Loretta are the worst.’
* * *
The Christina sailed on through the Mediterranean, steaming on its course towards Liverpool and stopping, briefly, only at Lisbon. Will worked hard to avoid the bosun but it was a near-impossible task. Cassidy was like a hawk circling over its prey, ready to pounce.
When they docked at Lisbon, Will and Paolo took advantage of the meagre three-hour shore leave, like thirsty men happening on an oasis. It was early afternoon, the sun warm, so they headed for one of the many cafés near the quayside and shared plates of grilled sardines and salted roasted peppers.
As they ate, Cassidy walked past, and Will heaved a sigh of relief that he hadn’t noticed them. They chinked their beers together in celebration.
’Tell me, amico mio, you think it is true what the bosun say about your sister, that she kill herself?’
Will looked away. He hated talking about intimate matters, about his past, about anything personal. Yet Paolo’s family had welcomed him into their home and he felt a stronger kinship with the Italian than he’d felt for anyone, since his friend Michael Winterbourne. But that friendship had turned sour. Michael had betrayed him. Will’s caution was deep-rooted.
‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘I think it’s probably true. Hatti
e was pretty mixed up.’
Paolo crossed himself. ‘Santa Maria, Madre di Dio, how terrible to take her own life.’ He shook his head. ‘Your sister must have been very sad, molto disperata, to do such a terrible thing.’
‘Maybe she was desperate.’ Thinking of the Tornabene family, Will could understand his friend’s incredulity. ‘Hattie was never happy. Always wanting what she couldn’t have.’
‘What did she want?’
Will stared out at the water and shrugged. ‘Who knows? To be rich? To be accepted by the country club people? For our mother not to have died when we were still kids? To have had a different life? To be loved?’ As he said the words, he wondered himself. Hattie had been an enigma to him. ‘But if she had wanted to be loved, she’d done everything she possibly could to prevent it from happening. She married a friend of mine and made him lead a dog’s life. Only got hitched to get away from home and wangle a settlement from my old man. As soon as the ink had dried on the marriage certificate she told her husband, Michael, she was going to spend most of her time living apart from him, in Sydney.’ He drained his beer bottle. ‘I reckon she blamed herself for our father being condemned to death.’
Paolo’s face was astonished. ‘Why? How could it be her fault?’
‘She opened her big mouth in the witness box and put her foot in it.’
‘But did he kill him? His own son?’ Paolo was horrified.
Will pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘He had no choice. My brother was bad. Rotten. Used to beat my mother up. Bashed the daylights out of her. And that day he was going after my stepmother.’ Will realised he was actually finding the telling therapeutic. He’d kept all this bottled up inside for so long. Paolo didn’t judge, just listened quietly and intently. ‘When I got there he was trying to have his way with her. Had her blouse half torn off.’ Will stared out towards the sea, frowning at the painful memory. ‘I stepped in and got a knife in my belly for my trouble. Nat would have finished me off and raped her, but Pa came along and shot him dead.’
Paolo’s expression was grave. ‘Then your papa had no choice. So why was he executed?’
‘Because the silly old fool said he was glad Nat was dead and wished he’d killed him long ago. Then my sister told the court that Nat had found out Elizabeth was having an affair. Made the jury think Pa killed Nat because he was mad at him for wrongly accusing his wife.’
‘So, they found him guilty? That is very sad.’ Paolo’s eyes reflected his concern.
‘The lawyers reckoned they could have got a retrial and the charge reduced to manslaughter and a long jail sentence, but the old man wouldn’t hear of it. Said dying was no more than he deserved.’
Paolo frowned. ‘Madonna. Che storia triste! Very sad story.’ He looked at Will intently. ‘And you, amico mio, what do you want?’
Will gave a dry laugh. ‘Me? I want nothing, mate. A bed to sleep in, wages paid at the end of the week, and a girl in every port.’
‘You make fun, Will, but inside I see you too are triste. Maybe not like your sister, but you are sad.’
Will laughed. ‘No, mate. Not sad.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘I’m not the one whose girlfriend comes from a criminal family.’
Paolo looked at him with amazement, then scraped back his chair and got to his feet. Without another word he turned away and headed back to the ship.
Will sat at the table, appetite for sardines gone. He called the waiter to bring him another beer and put his head in his hands. Why did he strike out and hurt the only people who cared for him? He’d done it to Rafqa and now he’d shown careless cruelty towards Paolo. As soon as anyone got close to him, he pulled down the shutters and locked them out. Why?
* * *
Crossing the Bay of Biscay is often a challenge. The seas there are predictable only in their volatility. The weather in the bay is frequently angry, its shallow waters attracting abnormally high waves that cause many a merchant ship to founder when caught in a storm. The winds blow in all the way from America, so that the waves grow in power as they cross the Atlantic and reach the shallow waters of Biscay with a ferocity that can challenge even the most seasoned sailors.
Will had only crossed the bay a few times. On the voyage south eight months ago, it had been calm and placid. The crossings he had made while working passenger ships between Sydney and Liverpool after he first went to sea had been rough but manageable and no test for his strong sea stomach. He was used to the rough waters of the Mozambique Channel and so now approached Biscay with respect but no fear.
The day started tranquil. Had they been a boat under sail, instead of a steam-powered ship, they would have been becalmed, but Will knew enough about the weather to understand that you could never count on it. About an hour into the crossing, the rain began, light at first, then growing in strength as the morning progressed. By midday the winds began to squall, and the sea swelled, rising and falling, causing the Christina to pitch about as it struggled to move through the increasingly choppy waters. Where this morning a dark flat sea met a pale grey sky, now these elements were reversed. The sky was dark as pitch and the sea now rising in towering waves and crashing down again, tossing the Christina in a terrifying cauldron of water.
Will was fortunate – one of the rare few who are immune to seasickness, no matter what the conditions. Paolo had claimed he was too but had never experienced seas like those they encountered that day. As the ship rose and fell, it rolled sideways as the force of the giant waves gathered. Paolo ran to the guard rail, ready to empty his stomach. Will dragged him by the arm. ‘Move leeward, now!’
Paolo jerked his arm away. Sick he might be, but not yet ready to be reconciled with his crew-mate.
Ignoring the slight, somehow Will dragged his friend to the lee of the wind, holding his head over the railings as Paolo vomited.
‘You don’t want to throw your guts up into the wind and have it come back all over you.’
Paolo was pale and sweating.
‘Look to the horizon. Keep your eyes fixed on it.’
Paolo groaned.
Will supported him and screamed again for his friend to focus on the horizon as everything else in this upside-down, crashing and pitching world moved in an uncontrolled and violent ballet. ‘Keep your eyes on it – it will help you get your balance back. Remember to roll with the ship. Don’t fight it.’ He took a small lump of raw ginger out of a tin in his pocket and told Paolo to chew on it. ‘It’ll help settle your stomach, pal.’
The sight of the shrivelled piece of ginger seemed to make Paolo feel even more nauseous.
‘Trust me. Chew it slowly and it’ll sort you out. Now, best way to fight it is to take your mind off it. Come on, we need to go below. It’s getting worse.’ Will shouted to be heard over the crash of the breaking waves.
As they lurched like a pair of drunks towards the companionway, one foot on the deck and one on the bulkhead, trying to stay upright against the pitch of the ship, they saw Jake Cassidy in front of them, lashed with a rope to the bulkhead and shouting at two of the lascars. The Indians were clinging onto the guide rail, their eyes wild with fear. It was clear that Cassidy was exhorting them to move to the bows to fasten down an untethered crate which was sliding across the deck.
The lascars were terrified – the bow was lifting upwards as the ship crested the giant waves which crashed over the deck in a torrential cascade that threatened to sweep them overboard. In just a few brief minutes the sea had grown angrier and the boat was being tossed about as if it were a piece of flotsam, not an iron-clad steam ship.
‘Get below! All of you,’ Will yelled, pushing Paolo through the hatchway that led to the lower deck. His voice was being swallowed by the wind and waves so he grabbed at Cassidy’s arm and jerked his own head towards the hatch. ‘Come on, get below! Staying up here is suicide.’
Cassidy shoved him away, eyes blazing, then turned back to the two Indian men. His voice was hoarse as he strained to screech orders at them above the sound of the stor
m and the elemental force of the breaking waves. ‘Tie it down – now!’
One of the two lascars must have heard the order as he stepped forward to grab the dangling end of the rope attached to the crate. The moment he caught it, he was swamped by a wave and tossed upwards. Will watched, powerless, as the man was lifted up above their heads and swept overboard. It happened in a fraction of a second, the screams of the man drowned out by the roar of the ocean. The second lascar, now hysterical, lurched towards Will, who grabbed onto the sleeve of his jacket and dragged him back against the bulkhead.
Yelling, ‘Man overboard!’ Will, soaked to the skin, pushed the surviving lascar through the hatchway and turned back to face Cassidy. ‘You have to get below. No point staying up here now. He’s gone.’
Before Will could do anything, Captain Palmer appeared in the open hatchway. ‘Below decks both of you. Now! Cassidy, go and relieve the second officer in the wheelhouse. Kidd, get below and close the hatch behind you.’
Cassidy’s eyes fixed on Will, burning with hatred.
The three men waited at the top of the ladder. All knew it was critical to match their movements to those of the ship. As the boat rose on the next wave, Will grabbed the rails and slid straight down the ladder to the deck below, letting the ship’s opposing momentum carry him. Cassidy followed on the next upward movement, with Captain Palmer bringing up the rear. Trying to get down a ladder as the Christina moved downwards would be like trying to wade through setting concrete – better to let the forces of gravity take the effort away.
Storms Gather Between Us Page 4