A Greater World: A woman's journey

by Clare Flynn

  'I don't play cards. But it looks like there are a couple of ladies over there who do. I'm sure they'd welcome another player.'

  Mrs Briars ignored the suggestion. 'I'll just have to teach you, my dear. Plenty of time to Cape Town. By the time I leave the ship you'll be a regular card sharp.'

  The steward brought their tea and the card-playing ladies, the man and the boy left the room together. Elizabeth sipped her tea and tried not to think about how long there was between now and Cape Town, where Mrs Briars would be disembarking.

  The older woman said, 'Tell me again, my dear - I'm so forgetful these days - how long has your father been living in Australia?'

  'About eighteen months. He went soon after the war ended.'

  'He finds it agreeable?'

  'I believe so.'

  'I do hope so, for both your sakes. But it's such a terrible distance. Mind you, so is Cape Town.'

  'Have you visited Africa before?'

  'No, no. When my late husband was alive he would never have entertained the idea of leaving England for the colonies. But now he's gone and my elder son taken from us in the War, Robert my younger son is keen for me to join him there.'

  Elizabeth forced herself to feign interest. 'What does your son do?'

  'He's a farmer. He's done very well for himself. He went out as an officer in the South African War, took a fancy to the place and never came home again.'

  'Does he have a family?'

  The woman snorted her laugh again. 'I do believe I may have piqued your interest, Miss Morton! And no he doesn't! One of my aims is to help him put that right by finding a nice young lady like yourself to be his help mate.'

  Elizabeth blushed, more in annoyance than embarrassment. 'Really, Mrs Briars! I was certainly not fishing.'

  'I'm teasing! But you would be perfect for dear Bertie. He's such a lovely boy, but much in need of a woman's steadying hand. I'm going to have to work hard over the coming days to prevail on you to break your journey in Cape Town. Who knows what might happen?' That terrible nasal laugh again.

  Elizabeth forced a smile. 'There's no question of that. My father is as anxious to see me as I am sure you are to see your son.'

  Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of the door banging, as a man who looked as though half the Atlantic Ocean had washed over him, entered the room. He pulled off his cap and made his way to a chair on the far side of the room, only for Mrs Briars to call to him.

  'Young man! Over here! Come and join us! The whole ship is going down with seasickness, so those of us still on our feet need to rally round and stick together!' She snorted again in appreciation of her own words.

  The man gave a small movement of his head that was somewhere between a nod of greeting and a shake of refusal.

  'Come on, it's perfectly ridiculous for three people to be sitting on opposite sides of this enormous empty room. Do join us. I'll ask the steward for more tea – and it looks like you could do with a towel and a blanket. It's nice and warm over here by the stove. I won't take no for an answer!'

  Elizabeth threw him an apologetic glance then pretended to look for something in her handbag, trying to distance herself from her cabin companion's behaviour.

  Looking reluctant, he nodded in greeting to Mrs Briars and crossed the salon to join them.

  'Pleased to meet you, Ma'am.'

  'I am Mrs Briars. And this is Miss Morton.'

  'Michael Winterbourne.'

  'Do sit down and stop shuffling about like that, Mr Winterton. You're making me nervous. Now where was I? Oh yes I was telling Miss Morton about my son Bertie. He has a large farm on the Cape and is one of the most important growers of wheat in the Province, you know?'

  Winterbourne and Elizabeth exchanged a glance then looked away quickly. Elizabeth raised her eyes again to take in the stranger. His thick hair was weighted down with seawater and rain and he kept brushing it back nervously. The steward arrived with a towel and the man jumped to his feet and moved away from them to dry his hair roughly, embarrassed at doing this in front of the two women. Elizabeth took advantage of the moment to look at him. He was tall, lean, but strongly built, as though accustomed to physical labour. His clothes were cheap cloth, poorly cut, but he had a natural elegance that needed no help from a tailor. Finished with the towel, he resumed his place beside them. There was an uncomfortable silence. Elizabeth was immediately self-conscious, feeling small and exposed next to the man, acutely aware of his physical presence, his proximity. She was tongue-tied, awkward, shy and looked away, annoyed with herself. She wished Mrs Briars had not invited him to join them.

  Mrs Briars breezed on oblivious to the changed dynamic. She addressed Winterbourne, 'I've been trying to convince Miss Morton to take a break in her journey and come and stay with us on The Cape, but she's quite determined to head on to Australia. I'll just have to keep on trying, won't I? I can't bear to let the dear girl go! We have become firm friends, haven't we, dear? And where are you headed, Mr Winterton?'

  'The name's Winterbourne. I'm going to Australia. To Sydney.'

  'And do you have family there? Miss Morton is joining her father there.'

  Michael looked at Elizabeth and then dropped his eyes. 'No. No family.'

  'So you're off to seek your fortune in the great unknown! How thrilling! And what do you plan to do when you get there?'

  'I fancy trying me hand at sheep farming – but I'll do whatever they'll pay us to do Ma'am. I'm not particular as long as it's honest work.'

  'But what is your profession, Mr Winterbottom?'

  He sighed, deciding that correcting her again was pointless. Exchanging another glance with Elizabeth, he replied, 'I don't suppose you'd call it a profession. Back home I were a lead miner, like me father and grandfather.'

  Mrs Briars raised her eyebrows. 'A lead miner? How interesting. I had no idea I would meet such a broad spread of humanity on an ocean liner. Most educational.' Then she sniffed and, twisting in her chair, turned her back on him and addressed Elizabeth.

  'Miss Morton, will you be attending the harp recital tonight? The chief steward assures me that the lady harpist is quite exceptional. She's performed before the Princess Royal. And I hear Mozart may be on the menu. Isn't that marvellous?'

  Before Elizabeth could respond, Winterbourne was on his feet and with a hurried nod in their direction and a mumbled 'Excuse me', left the room.

  'Really my dear, how rude! He's not even waited for his tea. What a common man. Breeding will out won't it? I won't waste time making conversation with him again. No manners at all. Imagine – a miner! What is The White Star Line coming to? My dear sister did warn me about taking a ship with just one class – the old fashioned way was the best. The likes of him would never have been allowed above decks in the old days. Steerage. That's where he should be.'

  Michael went back out on deck, careless that he was now half dry and about to be soaked again. His cheeks burned with humiliation. He felt diminished and belittled by the woman's snobbishness. As he paced the decks, he realised it wasn't the words of the old lady that perturbed him, but that she had humiliated him in front of the young woman. Why the hell should he care? And yet he did. Perhaps it was the way she had stood there on deck in the swell, staring out across the bucking sea? Her quiet containment and her evident sadness intrigued him. She seemed to exude an inner strength and yet also a vulnerability. He cursed his own stupidity. Why was he thinking like this about a woman, when he'd just walked away from his fiancée; when he should be atoning for what he had done to his family? And who the hell did he think he was, to even suppose that a woman like her would so much as notice a man like him?

  It was impossible to sleep. The three Mancunians were sitting on the cabin floor, their backs against the lower bunks, playing a noisy game of cards. Eventually Michael leaned over the side of the bunk and called down to them.

  'Look lads, can't you play in the smoking room? I can't get any shut-eye with you lot yammering on like that.'
/>   The eldest placed a card triumphantly on the discard pile and called his brothers. The other two groaned in protest. The victor looked up and said, 'Give us a break Mick! We're nearly done. Ten minutes? I told you, you should've joined us.'

  Michael pulled the pillow over his head and rolled onto his stomach. He was thinking about the woman again. He'd seen her sometimes in the dining room or walking around the decks. He always retreated but took every opportunity to observe her from afar. There was something about her. He could not put his finger on what it was. She wasn't conventionally pretty like Minnie. She had a sorrowful air, but her eyes hinted at a suppressed sense of life and energy, as though the unhappiness was a veneer. He wanted to peel it back, to see her laughing. Her face was interesting, her features fine, her eyes bright, yet the sum of them stopped short of classical beauty. Striking. That was a better word. But in a quiet way. There was nothing ostentatious about her. He liked the way her hair seemed to have a mind of its own, stray curls breaking away from her attempts to drag them into submission in a chignon. He imagined she herself was like her hair, reined in, but wanting to break out. Then he pushed the thought away. She was from another class. Well educated. Refined. Probably wealthy, judging by the cut and fabric of her clothes. Everything he was not. And besides, what was he doing thinking about a woman anyway?

  He turned onto his side, trying to conjure up a picture of what Australia might be like, but his imagination failed him. Counting kangaroos was no more effective than counting sheep. He had been sleeping badly since he came on board. He couldn't blame the lads from Manchester. Tonight's game was an exception: while they were boisterous and annoying in the mornings, with their mindless banter and corny jokes, most nights they stayed in the bar until late, then slept like the dead, not even snoring. When he did manage to sleep, he dreamt of the war, his sleep troubled by the rattle of gunfire, the pounding of shellfire and the smell of sulphur. And the corpses. Everywhere the corpses. Limbs torn off, faces obliterated, bodies crushed. And every dead body he saw on the battlefields of his dreams had the face of his brother. He woke in a sweat, fearful to sleep again. Before dawn, he climbed down from his bunk and pounded the decks in a pointless circuit then stripped off and swam up and down the salt-water pool in the dark.

  As the voyage progressed down the west coast of Africa the sea calmed and the sun warmed the decks. The public rooms were lively and crowded again. When the ship eventually docked at Cape Town, Elizabeth stood on the upper deck, looking at Table Mountain. She felt the warmth of the sun on her cheeks. The pallor of Northport had given way to a healthy glow in her complexion from all the sea air.

  The deck was crowded with people enjoying the view as they waited to disembark. She noticed the man she and Mrs Briars had met over tea. He was standing alone looking ashore. Since that afternoon, she had not seen him again. She thought it strange, because as huge as the Historic was, it was hard not to keep seeing the same people on board. Perhaps he had been avoiding her? On impulse she decided to speak to him now.

  'The view is more impressive than the Pier Head isn't it?'

  He started in surprise. 'Aye, it is that.'

  'The mountain certainly lives up to its name.'

  He looked at her with a mixture of interest, mistrust and shyness. 'Why? What's it called?'

  'Table Mountain. And it does look like a big flat table, sitting there between the sea and the sky.'

  'Aye it does that.' He looked away, as though ending the casual exchange but then, when she remained standing beside him, he nodded towards the crowd of people waiting on the lower deck. 'Not joining your friend then?'

  'She's not my friend.'

  He turned to look at her. 'Not your cup of tea, eh?'

  She smiled. 'Is it that obvious? Three weeks of sharing a cabin with that insufferable woman would have tried the patience of a saint, let alone me.'

  'Just have to hope her replacement will be an improvement.'

  'There'll be no replacement. The purser's just told me I'll have the cabin to myself for the rest of the voyage.'

  'Lap of luxury eh, Miss? I'm sorry I can't remember what yer name is? I were that keen on getting away from your cabin mate.'

  Elizabeth stretched out her hand to him. 'Elizabeth Morton, Mr Winterbourne.'

  He looked embarrassed. 'I feel really bad now, Miss Morton. You must think me quite rude not to have remembered yer name when you've done me the honour of remembering mine.'

  'Not at all. I've a memory for names and in your place I'd have run a mile to escape from Mrs Briars – especially when she kept getting your name wrong. Unfortunately I was stuck with her! I was sorely tempted to sleep on deck under the stars to escape her! It took her at least week to stop calling me Miss Milton! And she was very rude to you. I'm sorry.'

  'No need to apologise for 'er.'

  'Are you travelling with Mrs Winterbourne?'

  'There isn't one. No, I'm sharing a cabin with three brothers from Manchester. They're all right and leave me alone, which suits me. I'm not one for conversation.'

  'I'm sorry. I didn't mean...'

  'No, Miss Morton. I don't mean you.'

  'So are you going ashore for a while?'

  'Mebbe later, once the crowds 'ave gone. I were thinking to enjoy the peace and quiet on board for a bit. To be honest I'm a bit bothered that when I stand on dry land again I might fall over after being so long on board.' He adopted the gait of a sailor and started to rock slightly from foot to foot.

  Elizabeth laughed and realised it was the first time she had felt light hearted since leaving Trevelyan House. She said, 'I was keen to disembark and have a look around, until I realised that if I did, Mrs Briars intended to wrap me in the bosom of her family and I might never have escaped!'

  'I can see why that wouldn't appeal much.'

  She was about to speak again, but was overcome with shyness. It took her by surprise. It wasn't that she didn't know what to say, just that she was terribly self-conscious saying it. Her words seemed too big for her mouth and she was acutely aware of the sound of her own voice. She didn't want to look at him, turning towards the crowds pouring down the gangplank. What was wrong with her? She was like a tongue-tied schoolgirl.

  Michael interpreted her turning away as a wish to be left alone. He raised his cap, mumbled a quick good morning and walked off down the deck.

  She looked at his retreating back view. His rough tweed jacket was patched at the elbows and his cloth cap was threadbare and grubby at the front where his hand had grabbed at it over the years. He was wearing heavy boots that looked as though they had seen neither polish nor the attention of a cobbler in a long time. He was from another world and yet she liked him and wanted to get to know him better. She willed him to turn around and walk back to re-join her, but he disappeared into the queue waiting to disembark.

  Chapter Four - After Cape Town

  The day after they left Cape Town she saw him again. To avoid the other passengers, she had developed the habit of slipping up to the boat deck. It was out of bounds to everyone but the crew, but she discovered a spot behind one of the huge ventilator fans, where she would be out of sight. It was shaded from the sun by the adjacent lifeboats and she could lean back against the fan housing and watch the sea slipping by below.

  The sound of the passengers was distant and muted as they played deck quoits, swam in the pool or promenaded round the deck below her. She was engrossed in a book when a shadow fell across the page. She looked up.

  'Good morning, Miss Morton.'

  'Mr Winterbourne. You've found me out! Trespassing in the crew-only zone.'

  'Well if you're trespassing then so am I.'

  'The crew can see you if they look this way from the Bridge. You need to sit down here out of the sight lines.'

  'You've got it all worked out, Miss Morton.'

  'I suppose that makes me a hardened criminal?'

  'Aye, you could say that. But it makes me an accessory to yer crime.'

&nbs
p; She smiled up at him, blinking in the sunlight and gestured to the deck beside her. Hesitating a moment, he sat down beside her.

  There was an awkward silence until Elizabeth spoke. 'I love it up here. Away from the crowds and noise.'

  Michael looked around them but said nothing. She wished she hadn't asked him to join her. 'Tell me something about yourself, Mr Winterbourne. Why are you going to Australia?'

  'There's not much to tell. There wasn't much of a future for me back home and I heard Australia's a good place to start a new life, so I thought I'd try me luck. The government pays most of the fare as they need labour out there.'

  'You said you have no family?' She hesitated, 'No wife?'

  'No wife.'

  'And parents?'

  'Not any more.' His voice was harsh and the tone of his voice made it clear that he did not want to explain further. She decided not to push him. They lapsed into silence again, then he gestured towards the book that lay open on her lap.

  'What're you reading?'

  'Wuthering Heights.'

  'What do you think to Emily Bronte?'

  She looked at him in surprise.

  'Aye. I've read it.' His voice was cold and Elizabeth realised he must be think her no better than Mrs Briars: a snob who assumed a miner must be uneducated and ill mannered. The words stumbled out of her mouth as she hurried to speak and to cover any unintended offence.

  'I first read it years ago when I was at school. I've just finished re-reading Jane Eyre. But I thought she was a bit of a prig.'

  'Catherine Earnshaw more to yer taste?'

  'No. Stupid girl. I can't imagine what possessed her to marry Edgar Linton when she was so in love with Heathcliff.'

  'You like Heathcliff then?'

  'Gosh no. He's positively evil. Yet when I was a girl I thought him the most romantic character.'

  'A bit too rough and ready for you, eh, Miss Morton?'

  'Not at all. He's a cruel man. Not my idea of a romantic hero at all.'