The Tides Between

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Bridie woke the next morning to the clamour of six bells. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, saw the brooding deck boards above, her bag hanging from its peg, felt the empty rumple of blankets on Annie’s side of the bed. All around her, women wriggled into shifts and bodices. Bleary-eyed men pulled shirts over tousled heads. On the deck below, Pam Griggs struggled to dress her children.

‘Stand still, Billy. Let me button your trousers. Thumb out of your mouth please, Lucy. I can’t fasten your bodice. Oh, thanks, Annie. She needs a fresh pinafore.’

By the time Bridie had dressed and slithered down from her bunk, two-year-old Lucy was perched on Annie’s lap, thumb wedged firmly in her mouth. Giggling and squirming, her face pinked with pleasure as Annie played This Little Pig on her toes.

‘What about me?’ Billy’s head popped up smiling like a Jack-in-the-box. ‘I got little pigs too.’

‘If you want a turn, you must ask politely.’

‘Can I ’ave a go please, Miss Annie Bowles?’

Annie laughed, patting the bench. ‘Yes, come on, sit here beside me.’

Billy grinned, wriggled onto the bench, and held out a grubby foot. ‘I got five little pigs. I’ve counted. But I mightn’t giggle like Lucy, or squirm nearly as much. Coz I’m older than her.’

Fresh bread had been delivered to the ship while they slept. Ma hacked their loaf with a long-handled knife. Alf scooped leaves into the teapot while Tom fetched boiling water from the galley. Bridie helped Siân set plates out along their section of the table. Rhys was nowhere to be seen. Had he returned to steerage in the early hours of the morning? Or stayed on the main deck? The tight press of Siân’s lips suggested the latter. From the dark shadows beneath her eyes, Bridie guessed neither the Welsh girl, nor her husband, had enjoyed a good night’s rest.

After breakfast, Siân held up a shiny new penny and announced that she and Rhys were going to throw it over Lady Sophia’s bows as they got under way.

‘For luck,’ she said, her eyes a flash of sudden tears, ‘and goodbye. Maybe also for wishing.’

Imagine that, a whole new penny—and a wish. Bridie thought her heart might stop. She didn’t have a penny (and one look at Ma’s face told her it wasn’t worth asking). But if she stood beside Rhys and Siân as their penny spun through the air, she might borrow some of its magic. If she closed her eyes, hands gripping the bulwarks, and made a wish, then maybe, just maybe, her notebook would stay safe on its peg for the remainder of the voyage.

Doctor Roberts arrived while they were finishing the breakfast dishes. He sat, straight as a yard rule, though the wherry bobbed on the morning tide, one gloved hand gripping the rim of his silk top hat, the other resting on a silver-handled cane. He might have been a pleasure seeker out for a jaunt along The Strand, if not for his portmanteau and the set of travelling drawers he had hauled over the side of the ship.

Within half an hour of boarding he called a cleaners’ meeting. Alf’s name topped the list. His big, round face glowed with pride as if he’d won a prize. Ma kissed his cheek and straightened his cap as if he were an overgrown schoolboy. It was all rather embarrassing, as far as Bridie was concerned, and annoying—because Ma wouldn’t go on the main deck without him and, if Ma wouldn’t go on deck, neither could Bridie. She was trapped between decks.

If being trapped wasn’t enough to ruin her morning, Ma’s mood certainly would have. She wasn’t crying anymore. Neither was she happy. This morning, her tears had turned to ice—and she was snapping.

She’d re-rolled their mattresses at least twenty times since breakfast. Swept beneath their bunks until Bridie feared the boards might wear thin. Taken the mugs from their hooks and polished them as if they were silver instead of tin. Now, she’d run out of tasks and turned her attention on Bridie—and their luggage.

‘There’s a bonnet missing. The one I embroidered for the baby’s christening.’

‘It’ll be in our trunk, Ma. In the cargo hold.’

‘No. I’m sure I kept it out.’

‘You couldn’t have.’

‘It’ll be in your bag, Bridie. Get it down, please.’

Her bag!

Bridie’s stomach lurched, her gaze darting along the raised table-edge. She found the back hatch. The hatch! Where on earth was Alf? He ought to have returned long before this. For once, she’d have been thrilled to see his round, earnest face. She might even have managed a smile if he’d arrived at that moment, though she didn’t normally encourage him, because, although boring and stupid, he did have a soothing effect on Ma.

Lady Sophia creaked and groaned, swaying in her mooring. Overhead, shouts competed with the thud of feet and the occasional clank of a brass bell. Sounds of cheering drifted down through the hatchway, the toot and bellow of river traffic. From somewhere far off, Bridie heard a rhythmic chugging sound.

‘The tugs! Listen, Ma. Can you hear them?’

‘Don’t change the subject,’ Ma snapped back.

‘Don’t you want to say goodbye to London? The things we’ll miss?’ Bridie lowered her voice. ‘I’ll look after you, I promise. Alf’s probably forgotten we’re waiting between decks. He’ll be searching the crowd, even now, Ma, worried sick.’

‘If Alf said he’d meet us in steerage, he will, Bridie. There are no two ways about it.’

This was true. Alf was horribly reliable. He went to church on Sundays, worked in the market shop on weekdays and stayed home of an evening. He hardly ever went out drinking. If Alf said he’d be in a meeting, that’s where he’d be—standing to attention like one of the palace guards, as if the whole voyage depended on him.

There was only one consolation in this gloomy picture. If Alf was in a meeting, so was Rhys. His name had also been on the cleaners’ list. And if Rhys was in a meeting, he couldn’t be throwing pennies. Which meant she might still be able to make her wish.

‘You can’t stop the ship, Ma. Even if we have left the bonnet behind.’

‘And you’d rather I didn’t search your bag, is that it?’

‘No!’

Ma’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve been watching you, Bridie—refusing Alf’s help at the watergate, hovering over that blessed bag for hours on end. You’ve been skittish as a colt since we left Covent Garden, as if you’re hiding something—and I’ve got an inkling what that something might be.’

‘I’ve lied. Is that what you’re saying? Been sneaky?’

‘Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.’

Ma gathered her skirts and stepped on to the bench. Bridie lunged forward, grabbing her arm. ‘No! Don’t climb up. It’s … dangerous.’

‘Then perhaps you’ll get the bag down for me?’

They stood, eye to eye, in a bubble of silence. The tugs had drawn alongside, their rhythmic wheeze all but bursting through the sides of steerage. Bridie heard a bark of orders, the rattle of anchor chains, a high, shrill cry of many voices, and all the while her fingers shackled Ma’s arm, as if she could stop the moment unfolding.

She couldn’t. Her dad’s death had shown her that. Some things kept on happening, no matter how tightly you held on. This was one of them. And, no matter how much she valued her notebook, it wasn’t worth a tiny coffin.

She stepped onto the narrow bench, grabbed the bedpost and hauled herself onto the bunk. She couldn’t crawl fast. The overhead beams were too low. Although she’d heard Alf say the clearance was generous for steerage—around eight foot. She paused, adjusting her petticoats. Maybe if she handed the bag over, head held high, Ma would lose interest, give it only a cursory glance? Or maybe she could delve into the bag now, while Ma wasn’t looking, and shove the notebook under her bedclothes? She glanced back over her shoulder.

Ma teetered on the bench, her eyes a steely gleam. She wasn’t losing interest, or not looking. She wasn’t going to miss anything.

Bridie’s vision blurred.

She yanked the canvas bag from its peg, crawled along the bed and jumped down, hitting the deck with a thud.

‘It’s all right, Ma. You sit down. I’ll unpack.’

‘No. Let’s get to the bottom of this.’

Out came Bridie’s wad of scrap paper, her towel and cake of yellow soap. Next came her clean white shift, two pairs of worsted stockings, a pinafore and her starched cotton cap. Ma’s hands delved to the bottom of the bag. Her fingers closed around the single remaining item—a flannel petticoat, with something hard and flat at its core.

Bridie’s heart hammered. Her fingers clenched. She didn’t move or cry out as Ma unrolled the petticoat and let it tumble to the ground. The notebook sat like a breadboard on her palm.

‘I told you to leave this behind!’

‘I couldn’t, Ma. It’s precious.’

Ma’s lips thinned. ‘I’ve been patient, Bridie. God knows how patient. I let you spend hours in that blessed cellar, when you should have been helping me with my piecework. Given you time and extra candles, though we could ill afford them. But it’s been eighteen months since his death and you still haven’t adjusted. Or made an effort with the new father in your life.’

‘I don’t want to adjust. Or forget my dad.’

‘You haven’t got a choice, girlie. We’re leaving.’

‘No. I haven’t got a choice. About Alf, or emigrating. But I’m not going to leave my notebook behind, just because you hated my dad.’

‘Me? Hated him! Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘It’s true, Ma. You know it is.’

‘Truth! You want the truth? He didn’t love us. That’s the only truth I see. If he had, he wouldn’t have gone out that night.’

‘He only went because you nagged him.’

‘What of the other nights? Days spent staring at the wall? All our hard earned money spent on whisky? Is that what love looks like? He picked a funny way of showing it.’

‘It was your fault! You told him to stay away that night. I heard you. “Don’t come back,” you said. “We’re better off without you.”’

‘If not that night, it would have been another. Why can’t you see it? He’d given up, Bridie. He wanted to die.’

‘No! My dad loved me. He’d never leave me on purpose.’

‘He would—and he did. These words prove it.’ Ma wrenched open the notebook, jabbing at the message on the flyleaf. ‘“She held him fast, tho’ the wild elves laughed and the mountains rang with mire. She held him fast though he turned at last to a gleed of white hot fire.”’ Her lips curled. ‘A reference to “Tamlane”, isn’t it? His favourite ballad? As if he were some blighted Scottish hero, instead of a man who didn’t know his duty.’

‘He was sick, Ma, and sad. It doesn’t mean a thing.’

‘“Dark nights, cruel winds, shadows overwhelming,”’ Ma continued as if Bridie hadn’t spoken. ‘Then, here’s the choicest part, “Write them down and think of me and how I have ever loved you.”’ She looked up, triumph lighting her eyes. ‘That’s not a Christmas message. That’s a goodbye.’

‘No!’ Bridie backed away, clapping her hands to her ears. Why did Ma always do this? Why must she always spoil things? Her dad loved her. He never meant to fall down drunk in the street. When they brought him home, blue with cold, he’d fought to stay alive with every breath of his being.

Bridie crawled into her bunk. She shivered, curled up small, teeth chattering—cold, so cold, despite the thick wool blanket. Shock. It must be shock. She’d heard Ma talk about shock before. She’d heard her say nasty things about her dad too. In the early days, when he first got sick, Bridie had witnessed their arguments first hand. She remembered Ma’s shrill voice and twisting fingers. Her furious attempts to snap him out of his despair. But in all that time, amid all the terrible things that had been said, she’d never accused him of wanting to die before.

It wasn’t true! Despite Ma’s cruel words. Even in the final days of his illness, when coughs wracked his body and blood smeared his handkerchiefs, he’d dreamed of returning to Drury Lane. But what if all that time he’d been lying? If he’d written her Christmas message, knowing one cold night in the middle of winter would be enough to kill him? If he’d handed it over with love in his eyes, all the while planning to leave her … forever?

No! She’d never believe it. Yet, now the words had been said, she didn’t know what to do with them, how to make sense of them. Only lie in her bunk, letting them curl around her like tendrils of smoke and cast their pall over everything.

Alf didn’t notice. He came bustling along the deck, full of his own importance as always, seeing neither Bridie curled up in her bunk or Ma’s stiff, upright form.

‘Mary, sorry to keep you waiting. It’s a long story. You’ll never guess. Doctor Roberts has asked me to be his chief cleaning constable. He’s a bit of a dandy to look at, love. But a professional man nonetheless. He took me aside, said he’d read my character references, thought I was a cut above the others. He wants me to be his eyes and ears in steerage. Imagine that! If only Mr Pitt had heard those words. He’d not have overlooked me then, would he, love? Or promoted Johnnie Blackett ahead of me. Mary?’

Bridie heard a pause. Alf’s big dull mind trying to comprehend.

‘Mary, love, what’s wrong?’

‘Oh, Alf, I’ve lost the baby’s bonnet. And … Bridie’s been sneaky.’

‘Bridie? Sneaky! Don’t tell me she’s hidden the bonnet?’

‘No, it’s worse. Much worse.’

‘What, love? Tell me.’

‘She’s brought her notebook on board, Alf. The one I told her to leave behind.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, it’s disappointing, I have to admit. You’ve been so patient with her. I’d hoped she would make a clean break of things once we left Covent Garden.’

‘She accused me of hating him, Alf. Said I caused the argument.’

‘There now. We know it wasn’t that simple.’

Bridie didn’t stir. As if from afar, she heard Alf’s ambition, Ma’s obvious distress. Her mind registered the overhead trample of feet, the close up flap of steam paddles, heavy lines dragging against the side of the ship. Somehow, somewhere, she knew this was linked to a magic penny. But she no longer cared. Curled around the ache at her core, she heard only a measured pulse and the low distant murmur of another world.

‘I’ll have a word with her. We can’t have you upset. I’m going to be busier than ever in this new position. Where is Bridie anyway?’

‘In her bunk, Alf, sulking. I’ve said too much. But you know how she gets my blood up. Still, at least she knows the truth now. I’ve set her straight on that score. There’ll be no more mooching about, thinking her dad was God’s own gift to the world.’

The deck boards creaked. Bridie glimpsed Alf’s slowly turning form. She scrunched her eyes tight. Heard a sigh.

‘Look at me, please, Bridie.’

‘Go away.’

‘I know you’re upset. But we can’t have arguments. Your Ma’s condition is delicate.’

‘She started it.’

‘Can you climb down, please, Bridie? It’s hard talking to a heap of bedclothes.’

Bridie sat up, shoved aside the rumpled blankets and slithered down from her bunk. Alf stood in the aisle, her notebook clasped like a Bible in his hands. Beside him, Ma bristled like a brush, her eyes red-rimmed.

‘Your stepfather’s here now, Bridie. He’ll decide what’s to be done.’

‘No.’ Bridie grabbed for the notebook. ‘It’s mine. Give it back.’

‘Of course it’s yours.’ Alf laid a gentling hand on her arm. ‘No one’s disputing its ownership, and I’d like to give it back to you. But first we need to sort out this little … misunderstanding. You know why, don’t you, lass? You’re not a child anymore. You’re old enough to be honest—and to trust me.’

The unexpected kindness brought a wash of tears. It wasn’t real kindness, of course, only a pretence to get her on side. As if that were possible, when even now he fanned her notebook with his big, blunt fingers, as if he owned it, as if he had a right, seeing each carefully penned story without the music and magic of the cellar—and all through the lens of Ma’s bitter memories.

‘No, Alf! Don’t read it!’

Alf stepped back, surprise widening his eyes. ‘Don’t take on, lass. I’m only trying to help.’

‘You don’t understand. It’s private.’

‘I do understand. More than you realise. But your Ma’s upset. We need to put her mind at rest.’

Bridie’s fingers curled. She wanted to lash out, yank the notebook from Alf’s grasp, sprint along the deck. But what then? Find Rhys? No, he had his own troubles. ‘You say you understand, but you wouldn’t let me bring the notebook. You say you want to sort things out, yet you always take Ma’s side on everything.’

‘It’s not a matter of taking sides.’

‘Really? You never back me up, or see things my way. That’s why Rhys had to …’ She stopped, shuffled. Her eyes found the deck.

‘Rhys! The Welsh lad? What’s he got to do with this?’

‘He … well, he may have helped me … at the watergate.’

‘Helped?’ Alf turned puzzled eyes on Ma. Unfortunately, she wasn’t so slow to grasp the situation.

‘Hah! Him, a married man, his wife about to have a baby. He ought to be reported for interfering. Still, I’m not surprised. Welsh—and a musician. He was bound to be shifty.’

‘No, Ma. He wasn’t shifty. He was kind. And he understood about my dad and my notebook … even about the fairies.’

‘Stories! Fairies! Magic pennies! You think I didn’t realise? “Don’t you want to say goodbye to London? The things we’ll miss?” In a few years you’ll be married, with a husband and children to feed. There’ll be no time for wishes then, my girl. Or magic pennies.’

‘My dad made wishes. Even after he was married.’

‘Exactly! A mistake from the beginning. With me too young and foolish to see the signs. A little less wishing and a bit more elbow grease might have put some food on the table.’

‘Oh good, so I’ll marry someone boring.’

‘Not boring. Sound.’

‘And stupid!’

‘Enough.’ Alf stepped between them. ‘Let’s not say things we don’t mean.’

Bridie meant every word, and more besides. She blinked, looking up at Alf through a prickly haze.

He held up a silencing hand. ‘No, Bridie. I want you to hear me out.’ He swivelled back round. ‘You too, Mary, before you start. This is a family matter. I’ll not be reporting it to anyone.’

‘You’re the chief constable. You could have Rhys struck off the list.’

‘It’s too late, I’m afraid. He didn’t turn up for the cleaners’ meeting. Doctor Roberts is a strict man, Mary, and I hope a fair one too. I’ll go a long way with his backing in the colony. But he doesn’t strike me as a man for second chances. Perhaps it’s just as well, under the circumstances.’ He shrugged, thick lips pursed, and studied the notebook. ‘This seems harmless enough. As far as I can tell, it’s only fairy tales. That’s right, isn’t it, Bridie? Scottish fairy tales?’

She nodded, throat tight. ‘My dad’s favourites.’

‘It’s a lovely sentiment, lass, and I can see you’ve put a great deal of effort into preserving his memory. But your ma’s right. You’re too old for fairy tales. They didn’t help your dad and they won’t help you either.’

‘Please. I can’t leave it behind.’

‘You’re a clever girl.’ Alf continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Your ma kept you at school long enough to learn your sums. You could marry well in Port Phillip. You’d be an asset to a man with a business. There’s no rush, of course. You’ve only just turned fifteen. But girls do marry young in the colonies, I’ve told you that already and, as your father, I intend to see you make the most of your opportunities. Is that clear, Bridie? Do you hear me?’

She couldn’t answer. Tears fell thick and fast.

‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ Alf droned on. ‘But there are blank pages in this notebook.’

There were. She’d written small, drafted each story multiple times before entering it in her best copybook hand. Hoping, always hoping, there would be something more—a story she’d forgotten, perhaps, a treasured phrase, or ballad.

‘I’m not an ogre, Bridie, despite your best efforts to paint me as one, and as we’re setting out on a one-way journey, I’d like to make a fresh start. What do you say, lass? Are you ready to compromise?’

Understanding came slowly, letter by letter, then the whole word: compromise—agreement, understanding, settlement. She looked up, searching Alf’s round, earnest face. ‘You mean … you’re going to give it back to me?’

‘On one condition, that you work with me from now on—learn the names of the ship’s sails, record daily temperatures, note geographical details of the lands we pass en-route. There will be so many interesting things to record, Bridie. Sensible, adult things to improve your mind. What do you say, lass? Shall we make a daily log of the voyage?’

Say? What could she say? Alf’s words dropped like pebbles into her stunned silence. It was horrible. She shuddered. Too horrible to think about. Yet, so typical of Alf—this terrible misguided kindness.

‘Well?’ Ma’s sharp voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘What do you say? Your stepfather has made a generous offer.’

‘Yes, thank you.’ Head down, Bridie muttered the expected response.

Alf smiled, holding the notebook out to her. ‘Right, it’s agreed. A fresh start.’

At last! It was hers. Bridie snatched the notebook and spun round, hard and fast. Saw the nearby hatchway. Alf blocking her path. Head down, she shoved past him. Heard Ma’s cry of alarm. Didn’t look back. She flew up the hatchway ladder and stumbled blinking into the sunlight. Even then, she didn’t stop. She shoved forward into the press of people, not caring whose toes she might tread on. Or who she might hurt. In the shadow of the quarterdeck stairs, she sank down, tears coursing her cheeks.

Too late for wishes, or magic pennies. Too late to find Rhys and Siân. But at least she held the notebook in her hand. Discovered, sullied, its final message horribly diminished—but hers, still remarkably hers. She would never share it with Alf. He wasn’t her dad. She’d rather throw her notebook into the sea than let it fall into his big, blunt, interfering hands.