Signals of Distress

by Jim Crace

  The Bowes were given jobs as basket carriers. Walter Howells was glad to see them there. They were strong and used to lifting heavy loads of seaweed and so could be expected to shift a decent share of fish. He noted down their names. He’d pay them later on – in pilchards and with a promissory note. There’d be no pennies till the fish were sold, and he could calculate his own cut of the profits.

  Rosie Bowe was frozen from her walk. She warmed herself at the fire. She greeted her neighbours from Dry Manston and tasted her first roast pilchard of the season – not a touch on beef. But still she savoured it. It would be a long and arduous day, an aching day. She meant to pace herself. But Miggy didn’t wait to warm herself or taste the fish. She was already hot. She had seen Ralph Parkiss, thigh deep in the sea, basketing the pilchards with Palmer Dolly and his brothers. He would hand his next full load to her, and no one else. She’d see to it. Palmer Dolly – that idiot! – tried to put his basket on her back. ‘Come on, Miggy Bowe. Let’s see you give the pilchards legs.’ And then, ‘I got myself a dollar here …’ But she was deaf and blind to him. When Ralph stepped across the net, a wriggling basket on his shoulders, she paddled in to meet him. ‘That’s one for me,’ she said.

  ‘It’s heavy, though.’

  ‘So what of that?’ She took the weight of it. Her hand held his. Her lower lip turned in to check her smile. ‘Ma says I’m stronger than a horse …’

  ‘Giddup,’ Ralph said.

  They worked in concert then. He kept the baskets light for her, and every time they met at the water’s edge, they touched each other’s hands. Their fingertips were lips.

  Where did Aymer Smith fit in? He was, of course, the Smith & Son whom Walter Howells no longer needed. Whom Rosie Bowe would learn to do without. Whom Shipmaster Comstock took to be a kidnapper. Who was a coward and a weeper. Who was (his own assessment now) an apostate not only to God but to himself. Who had abandoned Otto to the snow.

  He hadn’t slept too well, and little wonder, given how his ear and self-esteem had taken such a bruising. His nose was blocked. His throat was sore. The muscles in his legs were torn. He should have stayed in bed. But he didn’t want to wake the Norrises with his offensive cough, or with his sniffing. Sea air, he thought, might clear his passages and lift his spirits, a little exercise might be his remedy. So he’d followed everybody else down to the shore and stood, his back against the fire, observing ‘all the colour of the scene’, the spectacle of one small, single-minded, unremitting town at its busiest. This, certainly, must be the point of travel, he was sure, to see the different tribes of humankind, at ease with themselves. Perhaps he ought to travel more, to Edinburgh, say, or Paris or Florence, to see the greater works of man, the castles and the statues and the churches. Though what greater work of art than this live pageant might he see abroad? He rehearsed (not quite aloud) his ‘philosophic certitude’ that a traveller should leave himself exposed to humankind, not art or landscape. Just for the moment, though, he preferred not to expose himself too deeply. He wasn’t tempted to wade in amongst the pilchards. He wasn’t well enough. He must stay warm.

  He nursed his sore chest at the fire. He waved at his good friend, Ralph Parkiss, and nodded dutifully, but nothing more, to agent Howells (who seemed both startled and amused to see him). Aymer couldn’t like the man, his red shock hair, his redder face, his unbecoming leather hat, his gracelessness, his ostentatious horse. But even greeting enemies was better than the desolation of being the only person on the beach without a job.

  ‘Good morning,’ and, ‘A wonderful sight!’ he said to any of the shivering fishermen that he recognized from his Sunday walk to Dry Manston as they came up to thaw out at the fire. ‘An exemplary spectacle … A feast for the eyes … What better work has man than this?’ Some Wherrytowners and some of the Americans who had witnessed his public dispute with Captain Comstock came to warm themselves as well. Aymer treated them with equal cheerfulness. He made them look him in the eye. He made them reply to his ‘Good morning’ and his comments on the weather. He wouldn’t be discomfited. He would put last night behind him. The morning was too fine for melancholia and self-consciousness. He belonged, he told himself; he was entitled to be there. Hector Smith & Sons had had dealings with Wherrytown for forty years. Who could say the same for Captain Comstock? Or his crew? They’d be come-and-gone in two weeks at the most, and couldn’t count on much respect for that.

  No, Aymer need not defer to the Americans. He had his tasks – to make sure that all the kelping families were properly informed of their new circumstance, and to carry out his promise to take care of the Bowes. He had been wrong to think there was no job for him in Wherrytown. He owed a duty to the Bowes. He might that day walk out to Dry Manston with some provisions for their home. They would appreciate candied oranges, perhaps, a yard or two of twill, some sweeter-burning candles. There would be the opportunity to enquire of Rosie Bowe if Miggy, Margaret, her daughter, might benefit from marriage to an older, wealthy, educated man. He hadn’t yet spotted the Bowes at work among the pilcharders. Nor had he noticed George.

  The parlourman approached him from behind: ‘Have you had breakfast yet, sir? Try one of these.’ He offered Aymer a grilled pilchard on a stick. Beneath the charcoal skin the flesh was white and succulent. Aymer burnt his lips on it. He was more hungry than he’d thought; the fresh air and the smell, perhaps. He pulled the burnt skin off with his free hand, and picked off fingerfuls of flesh. The fish juices ran onto his chin.

  ‘An oily fish,’ warned George. ‘Take heed you don’t grease up the lappets on that coat.’

  ‘The pilchard is a surface fish,’ replied Aymer, picking knowledge from his memory as clumsily as he now was picking bones from between his teeth. He was delighted to see George. ‘Pelagic is the term. You know the word?’

  ‘Don’t know the word. I know the fish well enough. There’s nothing else this time of year, exceptin’ pilchers.’

  ‘Demersic is the other word, I think. The twin of pelagic. It speaks of fish that live upon the ocean floor. I see a parallel with people here. Those shoals of common men who live near the surface, and those solitary, more silent ones that inhabit deeper water. I count myself to be demersic, then. You, George, can I describe you as pelagic, a pilchard as it were? You would not take offence at that?’

  ‘You’re talking to a pilchard, then?’

  ‘Well, yes, I am, within my metaphor …’

  ‘Mistaking a man for a fish is madness, I should say. It in’t what I’d call deep and solitary. What was that word you used?’

  ‘Demersic, George.’

  ‘Now, there’s a word! What do you say I’ll never have to use that word again?’

  ‘Do not hold words in low regard. Words have power, George. Words are deeds …’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ said George. ‘And the wind is a potato, I suppose. If words are deeds, then I’m the meanest man in Wherrytown. There in’t a sin I won’t have done.’

  ‘No, what I meant to say is this, that words and deeds should be the same. You make a promise, you should keep it. You hold a view, then you should stand by it. You should say what you do: you should do what you say.’

  ‘Well, there’s the difference,’ said George, evidently losing interest. ‘People in these parts in’t impressed by words. They don’t mean what they say. They only mean what they do. And that, I think, makes better sense.’

  This was a conversation Aymer liked: witty, schematic, circular; thrust, riposte, touché. ‘Deep and solitary’, indeed! That had a chilling edge to it. He had to credit George with some intellectual energy, a rarity in Wherrytown where ideas were not valued, it would seem, an even greater rarity amongst parlourmen where brain was less admired than brawn and impudence. George was an equal in some ways. In wiliness at least. And oddly democratic for a serving man, not deferential. Aymer – quiet for once – threw his fish-bone to the gulls and rubbed the oil into his hands. ‘What better work has man than this?’ he said to George, and tur
ned his attentions once again to the dealings on the shore. Miggy Bowe, a basket of pilchards on her back, was coming up the shore. He couldn’t miss seeing her. George was saying something, but Aymer waved him quiet and walked away from the fire in pursuit of Miggy, Mrs Margaret Smith. He wouldn’t speak to her. He only wanted to remind himself what she looked like, what kind of girl she was. He meant to rediscover that extravagant and rushing inspiration that, yesterday, had cast this young woman as his wife. He found her coming back down to the beach from the salt hall, empty-handed. She seemed immensely joyful. There was more expression in her face than he had noted on the previous day. She was more colourful, and smiling even. Her hair was tied back prettily and was flattered by the low and sunny winter light. The red kerchief around her neck was dramatic; alluring, even. Yes, she’d do well. Aymer was more certain now. She made good sense to him. He’d seek her mother out. He’d talk to Rosie Bowe at once.

  ‘GOOD MORNING, Mrs Bowe.’ She didn’t seem to want to stop and talk. Her smile was wintry, but she was cold and tired and shy, no doubt, and keen to get the pilchards off her back. ‘I trust you suppered well on that beef-fish you netted yesterday.’

  ‘A tasty fish,’ she said, and took a further step towards the salting hall. She hadn’t liked to smile too freely; he had an oily scab of burnt fish-skin on his nose. A comic beauty spot.

  ‘You might remember, Mrs Bowe, my parting words to you yesterday when you were kind enough to entertain me at your home. I promised to devise some ways in which I might alleviate your loss of kelping for a living …’ (she took another step, and moved the basket on her shoulder) ‘… for which, alas, my family firm owes some responsibility.’ He closed the gap between them, and whispered, ‘Your daughter, Mrs Bowe. Now I might help you both through her, though I would not wish to separate a mother and her daughter unless …’

  She looked at him and nodded. She understood. ‘You mean to take my Miggy as a maid?’

  ‘No, no. I would not take her as a maid. Your daughter is too fine.’ He swallowed deeply, blushed, and spoke almost inaudibly, his lips six inches from her ear. ‘I hope to take her as a wife.’ Rosie Bowe was startled now. She couldn’t think of a reply. She nodded. Shook her head. Raised her eyebrows. Smiled. ‘My Miggy get wed to you?’

  ‘You might not know of it, but I am yet a bachelor …’ He blushed again. She didn’t notice it. She’d turned away from him. She pulled a face.

  ‘You must regard me as a friend who wishes simply to enhance your lives,’ he said. ‘Consider, if you will, the benefits …’ He counted seven on his hands, and ended with ‘the benefit of some prosperity, not only for Margaret, but for all those who love her … She will regard it as an opportunity, I am certain of it, Mrs Bowe.’

  She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t say,’ she said.

  ‘You might like to join your daughter in my house.’

  ‘No, I in’t leaving here.’

  ‘There’s nothing here for you, not now.’

  ‘It’s home, is what it is. A bit o’ kelp don’t make the difference. At least my heart is fixed.’

  ‘Mrs Bowe, we need to talk of this at length. You might consider me an unexpected son-in-law. Indeed, you have a right. There is the matter of my age, my class, my sensibility. I am unlike your daughter, it is true. I might not make a pattern husband for her. I owe no debt to Beauty or to Youth. But I am earnest, Mrs Bowe, and trustworthy, and diligent. My motives are sincere and simple. You will not find me stained by that Humbug which is the besetting weakness of our age. I ask you and your daughter to consider me as if I am the continent of Canada, an unknown land, perhaps, but one of opportunity to which you might set sail with trepidation but an easy heart, and, on arriving there, discover unexpected rewards. And joys. Can I say more?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want my Miggy to go to Canada,’ she said. ‘America neither.’

  ‘She does not need to emigrate, Mrs Bowe. That was not my proposition.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  ‘Well, then, what do you say?’

  ‘What do I say? I don’t say anything. It’s her you want to carry off, and so it’s her you’ll have to listen to. And she’ll not marry you. Now then, and that’s the truth of it …’

  ‘Listen to me,’ Aymer said. He needed Rosie on his side.

  ‘No more. Not now.’ She put her basket at her feet, and pointed down the beach. ‘Don’t talk,’ she said. ‘They’s bringing that poor sailor in.’

  ‘What sailor’s that?’

  ‘What’s drowned on Saturday. They’ve netted him.’

  They watched in silence – embarrassed by each other’s company – as the Dolly net was tugged into the shallows and Nathaniel Rankin’s body was lifted off the deck of the tuck boat. All work stopped, to show respect. The men left the water. The women put their baskets down. The older ones came out of the salting house into the foreshore lane and muttered prayers. Walter Howells even dismounted from his horse. He could supply a decent coffin for the man.

  Palmer, Skimmer, Henry Dolly and his second son carried the body in its canvas sling. They ducked it once in sea water, to wash the briny residues away, and clean his clothes and skin of wet, dark blood and pus. A few stray pilchards slithered out of his shirt. They put the body on a cart, and let Nathaniel’s shipmates from the Belle say their prayers for him, or touch the canvas or the cartwood in farewell. Then everybody else jostled for a brief and queasy look – and Miggy, she couldn’t think why, was the only one to touch. Aymer was quite proud of her. She put her little finger on Nat Rankin’s leg. She’d never seen a corpse before. She then stepped back, put her head against Ralph’s chest, and let him put his arms around her waist. She let him kiss her hair. Where was Palmer Dolly? She looked for him. She wanted him to see her body wrapped in Ralph’s. She wanted everyone to see. Her mother, too. Here was a girl intended for America.

  Aymer wasn’t watching Nat. If he was breathless it was not because the corpse had winded him. He watched his new friend Ralph clasp Mrs Margaret Smith around the waist and put his fine young nose into her hair. Aymer took his spectacles off and wiped his eyes. ‘Too late to talk, I think,’ he said to Rosie Bowe.

  ‘She’s only but a girl.’ Rosie put her hand out and touched him on the arm. ‘She in’t for you. You must know that.’

  ‘I in’t for no one, Mrs Bowe.’

  He bowed. No one had ever bowed to her before. It wouldn’t do to laugh. Instead, while he was stooped in front of her, she brushed the fish skin from his nose. ‘Pilchard tears,’ she said. He turned and followed Nathaniel Rankin into Wherrytown, with the heavy head of a mourner.

  So Nathaniel Rankin came ashore with ninety tons of pilchards. The Dollys put him in the tackle room where Otto had slept. The Americans came in ones and twos to peek at him, and count their blessings. The captain ordered John Peacock, the Belle’s sailmaker, to sew the drowned man up in the piece of canvas he’d been carried in. George hovered at the door and watched. John Peacock smoked his pipe, and hummed to himself. He didn’t seem to mind the work. ‘You lose a man, you lose a piece of sail,’ he said. ‘This ain’t the first I’ve stitched. Nor will it be the last.’

  ‘What was that tale you told in the parlour the other night?’ George said. ‘The iced-up man from Canadee that ended up in Liverpool, and never died at all? They thawed him out. You think I ought to fetch some towels and grog for this one?’

  ‘Nat Rankin won’t see Liverpool,’ John Peacock said. ‘He won’t be calling out for grog. I’ve stitched him in for good. There now.’ He’d wrapped his shipmate out of sight. ‘And that’s the end of it. Except for digging him a hole. And prayers.’

  ‘And worms,’ said George.

  THE PILCHARDS had been brought ashore before midday, and though the townswomen still had several days’ more work to do in the salting hall, the men were free at last to take advantage of the heavy, flooding tide and get the Belle clear of the bar at Dry Manston. The fishermen took in their nets, and mad
e the best of a modest breeze to get along the coast before high tide at a quarter after two. Their task: to put a dozen towlines on the Belle, and steady it from drifting further inshore once the keel was floating free of sand. The Americans and another fifteen willing hands from Wherrytown were hurrying along the coast by foot. The snow was slush by now. The day was mild. And they could make fast progress. Ralph Parkiss pointed out the Cradle Rock as they passed by. His comrades teased him endlessly about the girl he’d found. ‘Dump her, Ralph,’ they said. ‘We don’t want ballast on the Belle.’

  Walter Howells had got the Monday organized with military precision. He loved to be the mounted major-general, deploying men with stabs and swipes from his riding crop. He would have had his flintlock in his belt if only he could have found it in his house. He would have fired it in the air to start the men off on their journey down the coast. ‘Not now. No time,’ he said, when anybody threatened to delay him with questions or pleasantries. He heeled his horse from shore to inn and back. He might seem bad-tempered to those he shouted at. But Walter Howells, in fact, was happy with himself, and red-faced only with high hopes and skin that didn’t like salt air. His day was going well. And it was fine, thank God; no awkward wind, no squally sea. He’d have no trouble with the Belle of Wilmington, so long as he made haste. There was no time to waste. He found a birchwood coffin and took it from his storeroom to the inn, balanced across the saddle of his second horse. He leant it up against the tackle-room door, and nodded at the corpse and at John Peacock, the sailmaker, within.