by Vicky Adin
“You’re not really with me any more, are ye, Jamie?”
He had the decency to look shamefaced. “She makes me feel different, our Breeda. Not like a young oaf, but someone who matters.”
Her heart sank a little. “Off you go then.” If her instincts were anything to go by, he was going to get hurt. “I’ll see you another time.”
“You’re an angel.” He kissed the top of her head and sped off.
She watched him go, wondering when Miss Maggie would appear next. She’d taken to ‘accidentally’ bumping into Brigid at least twice a week to gossip about this and that.
Excitement rose as the passengers chatted about the sights, especially the mosques surrounded by trees and gardens where an oasis was located, but any ideas of going ashore were soon thwarted. The canal was so narrow, ships had little room to pass each other and the vessel was forced to remain at anchor until given the go-ahead to traverse the Suez Canal in convoy later that day. To add to their dismay, the passengers received instructions forbidding them to engage with the locals wanting to sell goods from their small boats.
Reinforcing this command, officers and crew began to move along the rails compelling people to stand back. All the while they shouted at something or someone out of sight below them.
“Get away from the ship,” they repeated time and again. “Move away or we’ll fire.”
“What’s going on?” Brigid shuddered at the suggestion someone may be shot.
Polite but firm, the officer explained, “Nothing to alarm you, miss. Just pedlars. Happens every time. Now, can I ask you to move on please, miss?”
“But why ...?” Brigid began.
“Orders, miss. Too risky.” He touched his cap and continued his circuit of the deck.
“Move away,” he called over the rails. “Move away, I say.”
His voice faded as Brigid stared after him, wondering what he meant.
“Enjoying the sights, Miss O’Brien?” Philip Harrison-Browne, attired in a light coloured day suit tipped his panama hat towards her. She was no longer surprised by his arrival. He’d developed the uncanny habit of turning up not long after Sally, Jamie or Maggie had left her alone. To chat, he’d once explained, bored by the pomposity of his fellow First Class passengers.
“I am, thank ye, Mr Harrison-Browne.”
“So am I.” He winked, smiled directly at her and put his hat on. Every time he hinted at a compliment she blushed but tried to remember what Sally told her: ‘Don’t begrudge him; it’s in his blood. Just flutter your eyelids and give him a pretty little laugh. Not too much, but enough to keep him friendly. Oh, and ask him questions so he does the talking. You’ll have him eatin’ out of your hand in no time.’
Philip leant his elbow on the rail and looked at her quizzically. “You do know why they won’t allow any contact with the shore here, don’t you?”
“That I do not. The young officer said it was too risky. What did he mean by that, do ye think?”
“Now, I don’t want you to be concerned,” he continued, hesitating. “But about a year ago, when this ship sailed this way, it ... well ... some of the passengers contracted cholera ...”
“Cholera!” she squeaked, placing one hand on her breastbone. “But that’s ...”
“Steady on.” He laid a hand gently on her upper arm, resting it a little too long for her comfort. “The ship is no longer contagious. I know it’s upsetting, and even though the disease can be fatal, not everyone got sick, and not all those who got sick died – so don’t be frightened.” He squeezed her arm reassuringly then put his hand in his pocket. “The ship arrived safely in Australia and made another trip earlier this year without mishap. We’re perfectly safe, I assure you. The authorities don’t know whether it came from contact with the local people or from contaminated water or food, so they are being especially cautious this time.”
“Wouldn’t it be fair if we knew what was going on?” Brigid believed in fairness.
Philip looked at her askew. “What? And cause a panic. No. It’s best as few people know as possible. I trust you’ll not say anything?”
Brigid nodded in agreement, not sure how to keep such news to herself. Sally would spit tacks if she knew. “So why is it that you know?’
“My father makes it his business to know these things.” He shrugged, saying no more on the matter. He lifted his hat, flipped his hair back and coughed delicately into his curled fist. “I wonder if you would do me the honour of accepting a little gift.”
He withdrew a small burgundy-velour covered notebook from his jacket pocket. “I notice you keep a diary and thought you might like this. It’s not much, but I’m sure you will have a use for it.”
He handed it to Brigid, who stretched her fingers towards it but didn’t take it.
“Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly accept anything from a gentleman such as yourself, sir. It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Who’s to know? And why wouldn’t it be ‘proper’? I’m only giving you some paper.”
Tempted by his logic, Brigid took the notebook and smoothed the velour with the palm of her hand. She unclipped the clasp and fingered the fine paper inside. “It’s very beautiful. I’ve not seen anything as fine as this before.”
“Yes, beautiful, like its holder. Do take it ... to please me.” His voice rose at the end as he cocked his head to the side and raised one eyebrow. “It’s a token of appreciation for allowing me to talk to you. You are so refreshing after the dour men of the cloth and simpering maidens and their mothers I’m usually forced to converse with.”
She followed Sally’s advice and laughed a little, and fluttered her eyelids – not disingenuously, but because she was flustered by the thrill quivering in inexplicable places.
“It’s me who should be flattered. I’ve never spoken with a toff ... sorry, I mean gentleman before. ”
He burst out laughing. “Miss Brigid – I may call you Brigid, may I not? I do so enjoy your company.”
Suez Canal
Same day
As the sun rose higher so did the temperature. With nothing more to see, and people too spent to do anything beyond stare at the dun-coloured desert and matching houses, most sat around like lumps of lard melting in the heat.
“By God, it’s hot!” Like many of the passengers Sally sought the coolest place she could find to sit and wait for the ship to start its traverse of the canal – like all, except Brigid. She paced, sat, stood, paced – restlessly, relentlessly.
“For goodness’ sake, lassie,” cried Sally. “Will you settle? You’re putting me on edge. Either you talk with him or you don’t. What harm can ye come to on the ship?”
“Well, nothing, I suppose. It’s just ... I don’t know. Ah, Sally. Why am I feeling like this?”
“’Tis love, most like,” Sally answered cheekily, knowing she’d embarrass her new friend – and she did.
Brigid’s face turned into a picture of dismay. “Don’t be silly. It’s not.”
Sally shrugged. “If ye say so, but stop wasting energy. Come sit awhiles – do something useful. How about we make ye another bonnet – ye can wear it when you walk out with him.”
“I’m not walking out with him!” Brigid snapped back, but admitted her fingers and mind needed a diversion.
Hours later the call to weigh anchor came at last, and the ship started its slow passage through the canal. Sally and Brigid watched the township fade into the distance. Stone walls lining the waterway helped keep the sand at bay, and for hours on end, the only thing to see was the endless desert, punctuated by strange trees in odd places.
Sometimes a small cluster of buildings broke the barren flatness or an occasional rocky outcrop varied the skyline. An unusual mosque with domes but without spires came into view.
“Look, look,” cried a woman. “What are those funny creatures?”
“They’re camels,” someone replied. “Ships of the desert, they call them, because they can carry a heavy weight and sway from side to
side when they walk.”
“And they can go days without food and water,” added another voice. “They’re like pack horses. See, there’s a man on the front one, then several carrying goods and another man and a camel at the back.”
“They travel from town to town across the desert. How they survive in all those long robes and their ’eads wrapped in those towel things is beyond me.”
“Protects them from the sun, they say.”
The conversation swayed to and fro around them, but Sally could see Brigid wasn’t paying attention. Although the two of them had begun making a new bonnet from the various bits and pieces they had put together, Brigid still denied her reasons had anything to do with Philip.
“Of course it’s not because I want to show off to Mr Harrison-Browne – that’s your silly idea – it’s only because my thread is running out and I need something to do with my hands.”
“Whatever you say, hen.” Sally wasn’t convinced, and apart from Brigid’s clearly confused feelings over Philip Harrison-Browne, something else was gnawing at her. “You look as though the worst thing that can happen, already has.” Sally joined Brigid at the rails and tried to cheer her up. “Come on, buck up. You can’t go round with a face that long, you’ll trip over it.”
“Sorry, I’m just feeling a bit glum. Can’t seem to want to do naught.”
“It’s the heat, I reckon. Making everyone feel weary, it is, but you think too much. Come on. Leave this for now. Let’s find a card game or summat, or some dancing. You like dancing.”
“It’s too hot.”
“Well, they tell me it’s hot in Australia all the time, so we better get used to it. Can’t go around doing nowt there, can we? We have to work for our living.”
“Sure, ’tis true what you say.” Brigid paused and looked out across the ship’s rail at the never-ending sand and sky. “Sally, do you ever feel there’s people watching you?”
“What you on about? There’s always someone a-watching someone on this ’ere tub, even if it’s just for summat to do. You mean that toff?”
“No. Not him. I know he watches me, and I don’t mean like that. I mean creepier – like ‘hairs on the back of your neck’ type watching you. Like there’s someone there behind you, only there isn’t.”
“You going all fey on me?”
Brigid shook her head. “Not at all. Ah, never mind me. It’s just a feeling I get sometimes.”
Sally pulled at the loose curls draping over her shoulder. She didn’t like hearing Brigid sound so uneasy. It was time for Sally Forsythe to put her ear to the ground and find out what was going on.
Interest in the foreignness of the landscape had rapidly waned in the three days it took to get to Suez, but it became impossible to ignore the daytime heat and the grains of sand swirling in the air, making everything feel gritty. Fortunately, but much to everyone’s surprise, the temperature dropped considerably when evening came, and, while the between-decks air was still stuffy, the lack of humidity and the cooler nights made it easier to sleep.
Feeling less tired improved their general frame of mind a little, but boredom and the stress of being confined to a small area surrounded by sea grew. Tempers were readily ruffled and irritability commonplace. To stave off the tedium, most evenings Sally found a card game while Brigid and Philip promenaded around the deck.
“Thank ye kindly, gentlemen,” Sally said to loud groans of complaint, as she scooped more ha’pennies from the table. “Anyone up for another hand?”
She dealt to a new set of patsies and called a card. Her skill with cards was the only useful thing her stepfather had given her. He’d taught her how to fleece the most unlikely of suspects to earn more than a bob or two for the coffers, for which she was grateful. What forced her to run away were the beatings and his nightly visits to her bed when her ma was sick. After she died, Sally had taken off. No man was ever going to misuse her like that again. She’d live off her wits and her charm – and a hand of cards – but not her body.
The call went round the table; cards were held, or taken and discarded. Sally was careful not to win too much or too often, so as not to arouse suspicion, but most of the men were too cocksure of their own abilities to think a woman could beat them.
Late at night Sally happily listened to Brigid talking about the events of the evening, either while they lay on their bunks with everyone asleep around them, or while Brigid tried to tame her friend’s wilful curls.
“We aren’t the only ones out walking,” Brigid informed her, pulling the brush through the tangled locks. “The deck gets quite crowded and we often have to weave in and out of other people.”
Brigid was so wrapped up in her own excitement she didn’t notice Sally said little about her own activities – she instinctively knew Brigid wouldn’t approve. Neither would her friend approve of the way she’d dealt with that Englishwoman she and Brigid had confronted on their first day.
Ethel was the woman’s name, Sally had discovered. And she was a bully to nearly everyone who crossed her path. Ethel had promised to ‘get even’ – and had tried. Once she’d tripped Sally when they passed, another time she threw Sally’s fork overboard, but mostly she bad-mouthed her, loudly, whenever she saw her. Sally had quietly warned her to be nice or suffer the consequences. Ethel had scoffed, but like most bullies, she didn’t like the taste of her own medicine. By the time Sally had finished with her, she was more lamb than bull. Despite nursing a broken finger and screaming blue murder, she never bothered Sally again.
Brigid kept talking even though Sally said nothing in response. “He has such manners, does Mr Harrison-Browne. He is always so charming and doffs his hat, wishing everyone a good evening when he has to step aside to let another pass. And he has this beguiling way of flicking his hair back from his face.”
Brigid put the brush down and split Sally’s hair into segments, holding it out of the way with hairpins so she could plait the top section first.
“And he does make me laugh with some funny remark about a man with bat wings for ears, or a woman whose hair was piled so high he thought the seagulls would nest in it. I know we shouldn’t make fun of people, but he does see life in a different way.”
Oh dear, as sure as my name is Sally Forsythe, the girl is going to get hurt before long.
“And I have to thank you,” continued Brigid, weaving the side plaits into the top and working her way down. “For your idea of a new bonnet. Indeed, Mr Harrison-Browne even commented on it.” Brigid finished plaiting Sally’s hair and leaned closer, lowering her voice. “I’m a wee bit bothered, that I am. When he said he mistook the woman with the white skin for a ghost in the moonlight, I came over all shivery. I’m just a-wondering – this feeling of someone behind me all the time – is it a fairy waiting for me, do you t’ink? Is she trying to foretell my doom?”
“No, lass. The fairies canna follow ye across the sea. Dinna fash. It’s nothing to worry about.”
Two nights later, as they passed through the southern end of the Suez Canal, Sally, Brigid, and Philip stood together to listen to the purser’s announcement. Sally didn’t feel comfortable with Philip – he was too smug for her tastes. She usually avoided him, but Brigid had insisted she stay.
“Our course will follow the length of the Red Sea as we head towards the Gulf of Aden. The next port of call will be Batavia in the Dutch East Indies, on the 25th of November. Three weeks from now.”
“Will we be able to go ashore?” Brigid raised her voice so the officer could hear.
Any hopes the passengers had that the monotony would change were soon dashed. “In Batavia? Sorry, miss. No. Captain’s orders. We are only picking up coal.”
Sally didn’t quite understand Philip’s casual shrug and ‘see, I told you so’ look, but Brigid clearly did.
Still, not to be beaten, Sally turned the disappointing news to her advantage. “All right folks, time we did something to spice things up around here. How about a bit of a party? Now we’ve all se
ttled down again after that there storm, and the scenery outside isn’t up to much, we need some fun to entertain us.”
Straightaway the harmonicas, fiddles and accordions came out of hiding, and everyone was ready to play up a storm of their own. But she didn’t want any standard free-for-all. This was to be an event, almost a performance; she just had to persuade them to go along with her ideas.
“I’ve got plans for you too, Miss Breeda,” she said, getting into the swing of organising who was doing what.
“Oh no, Sally. I don’t play anything, and I’m no good at singing either. Leave me out of it.”
“Not singing, naw. But dancing, aye. You’re a lovely dancer so surely ye can do some of them Irish jigs. You know them all, and I’ve found a fella who knows how to play the fiddle for ye. And don’t try getting out of it now, Miss Pudding and Pie.”
Brigid didn’t answer. She shivered and looked sharply around but saw nothing unusual amongst the people behind her.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. It’s just that feeling again.”
“Ach. Don’t pay her no mind.”
Brigid grabbed Sally’s arm. “Who? What are you saying?”
“That feeling you been getting. I’ve had my eye out, ye see.” She tapped the side of her nose to show she’d done some snooping. “It’s only Madame Maggie. That one your cousin’s keen on. Don’t know what she’s up to, but.”
Sally continued talking about who was doing what, ticking off on her fingers the music, the stories and the songs she had planned. “Are you listening to me?”
“I am that.” Brigid stood staring at the spot where she was convinced she’d glimpsed someone. “I was just wondering what she’s all about, following me around.”
“Slightly crazy, if ye ask me. Those girls she’s supposed to be looking after just run wild around the place, ’cept when there’s food to be had. And as for that brother of hers ... well, no one has a good word for him. Now, where was I?”
* * *
Wednesday, 10 November 1886
