Liam's Story

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  There, for one night in April, 1881, were all its residents. Not only their names and ages, but their occupations, relationships and places of birth. They were all there: Mary Elliott, head of household and a widow; her three daughters, he r nephew Edward, one servant and four guests. It was so exciting, she wanted to jump up and shout the news aloud; but repressed by the silence in the library, she simply left the screen and found her helper. ‘I’ve found them,’ she had whispered, grinning delightedly from ear to ear, and the girl had smiled with genuine pleasure.

  She had written down, exactly, all that the census divulged. Mary Elliott had been born in Lincolnshire, while her three daughters, of whom Louisa at fourteen had been the eldest, were all born in York. Edward’s birthplace was Darlington in North Yorkshire, and he was twenty-six in 1881, and a bookbinder. As a family, Zoe reflected, they had certainly moved around, which destroyed assumptions that only in recent times had people become truly mobile.

  So, they had travelled, and to have been in business presupposed a certain intelligence. In that day and age, widowed, with three young children to bring up and no social security as a safety net, Mary Elliott must have been both capable and astute. Also determined and strong. Zoe admired that. Recalling Letitia’s second name, Mary, she wondered whether her great-grandmother had favoured the old woman, and an image came to mind of a smart, plump, grey-haired woman with shrewd blue eyes and a slightly cynical smile. For all her eccentricities, Letitia had been nobody’s fool, and Zoe rather suspected Mary Elliott of being a similarly tough character.

  What really intrigued her, however, was the relationship between Mary’s eldest daughter, Louisa, and her nephew Edward Elliott. First cousins, with a gap of twelve years between them; she a young girl, ripe for romance, and he a man. Living in the same house, or just visiting? It was impossible to say, but Zoe could not help wondering whether he had taken advantage of close proximity, perhaps made Louisa pregnant, and then had to marry her. There may have been a family row, occasioned by disapproval of the situation and their close blood relationship — they could even have moved away from York, then for some reason been forced to return and eat humble pie at Mary Elliott’s table.

  It was a tempting theory, but no more than supposition. With such slender facts to hand, a dozen different interpretations were possible.

  Sighing, Zoe wished that her great-grandmother had not been so close-mouthed, wished she could have been the average elderly woman, delighted to talk about her own and her family’s past. That she had not, made Zoe wonder whether she was ashamed of those comparatively humble origins. Her claim to be descended from landed gentry seemed to bear that out; but Zoe was determined not to reveal Letitia as either liar or romancer until the full story was known. And for that, what she needed were some other Elliott descendants, people who had known Letitia, Liam and Robin, and understood something of their background.

  It was a tall order, she realized that. The carnage of the First World War could have wiped out one or both of those young men, and it was quite possible that Zoe was the only descendant of that family left alive.

  But no, she would not allow herself to believe that, nor admit defeat before every avenue of research was exhausted. Besides, something deep inside kept urging her on, something more vital than just the thrill of the chase.

  Hunger impinged upon those considerations, together with the realization that in less than an hour, Philip was coming to collect her, and they were meeting Clare and David at yet another little bistro that David had discovered.

  Her glow of pleasure was not entirely unalloyed. She liked Philip, but had always found his friend David rather overbearing. The thought of another evening in his company – the third in short succession – was not one she relished. It was a shame on more than one account since he had recently become engaged to Clare, one of Zoe’s oldest friends. Not the closest by any means, but the two women had somehow retained their connection since schooldays, while most of the others had fallen by the wayside.

  Naturally, they had seen much less of each other once the romance with David became serious, and a small kernel of cynicism in Zoe was aware that these recent invitations were prompted largely by David’s desire to set up his old friend Philip with a girlfriend. He had been working in Brussels for the past two years, and was rather out of touch. But it was also to Zoe’s advantage, and for that she was grateful. In recent months she had become something of a hermit, too taken up with a sudden rush of commissions and her own desire to consolidate her reputation as an illustrator, to pay much attention to a social life.

  So it had been a pleasant surprise to meet Philip, and to feel the pull of mutual attraction. He was really very good-looking, if a little unsure of himself, which Zoe found charming. And with the shyness in abeyance, he could be amusing, full of fascinating anecdotes about life in the European Community. Away from his friend David’s shadow, Zoe felt that he might be more interesting still.

  Musing happily on the possibilities, she showered and changed into a flowing calf-length skirt and silk blouse, its dark emerald lending a touch of green to her clear grey eyes. For once, her hair was behaving, with little tendrils of curls framing her face. Surveying her reflection, she had just decided, as Philip arrived, that her ensemble needed something else...

  Spotting the shawl she wanted as he waited in the lobby, Zoe whipped it off the sofa back, shook its silk folds vigorously, and arranged it around her shoulders. Her companion looked on in some surprise.

  ‘Isn’t that part of the decor?’

  It was her turn to be surprised. ‘Well, yes...’ She gave him a consciously winning smile. ‘But it goes rather well with what I’m wearing, don’t you think?’

  He smiled and nodded, but she had the feeling that he did not quite approve. She sighed. Perhaps his mother was a woman whose possessions were static rather than fluid; or he was afraid that the shawl was dusty after weeks on a sofa-back. Well, maybe it was, but to Zoe that mattered less than the fact that it completed her outfit.

  For a moment she hesitated, wondering whether she should give in to his sense of propriety and discard the prettily-patterned shawl in favour of something more respectable; but no, that would be like shedding part of her personality, and Philip must learn to accept her as she was, warts, shawls, dust and all.

  At the last moment, as they left the flat, he managed to save her mood and the evening by telling her that David had gone down with laryngitis. As the rising young barrister was due in court on Monday morning, he had felt he must stay at home and save his voice.

  It was excellent news.

  Waking alone next morning, she surveyed the disappointment of the night before and wondered what was wrong. Was she really so unattractive? Had she tried too hard to seduce him? Perhaps he was turned-off by pushy women.

  Whatever the reason, it was a frustrating end to a wonderful evening. It had begun so well: dinner, then a nightclub, some great music, dancing. And he was a good dancer – she’d been seduced by his pleasure in the music into thinking they were really in tune. Coffee back here at the flat – closeness on the sofa, some passionate kisses, a bit of fondling – yes, it was all going well. Even then, she’d hardly been trying. But suddenly, just as she thought he was going to whisk her into the bedroom, he’d looked at his watch and said he had an early start in the morning. Regretful, apologetic, but he really did have to go.

  He’d said he would call her, but she didn’t imagine he would. Something had turned him off, but she didn’t know what.

  An hour later, Polly, her friend from the flat above, dispelled such ideas with an airy wave of the hand. ‘Listen, darling, you didn’t do anything wrong. Maybe he lives with his mother and she was waiting up…’

  ‘He never mentioned his mother.’

  Polly dissolved into laughter. ‘Well, you never know – he’s just back from Europe, maybe he’s still flat-hunting and didn’t like to say he’s lodging with a dragon. Don’t beat your breast over it. He�
�ll call you, I’m sure.’

  ‘You’re right, Polly,’ Zoe agreed with a sigh, ‘but I thought…’ She shook her head, not entirely reassured. ‘Anyway, thanks for the coffee and the sympathy. I should go and do some cleaning – Mother is threatening a visit!’

  Through tall windows the searching rays of low winter sun revealed layers of dust in places she had barely noticed for months. A dull grey film deadened the marble fireplace and softened the edge of black bookshelves in the alcove. Cobwebs hung like hammocks from the room’s high corners. Zoe groaned at the thought of dragging the stepladders out, but a blitz on the cleaning was probably just the thing to rid herself of gloom.

  What the flat needed, Zoe decided, was redecorating, but it would have to wait until the spring. Four years since its last fresh coat of paint, and the memory of weeks of back-breaking work was enough to make the idea of starting again feel like masochism. But the place had been filthy before she moved in, the victim of years of neglect, requiring more physical effort than anything she had undertaken, before or since. Then, it had been the kind of challenge she needed, an effective cure for post-examination blues, and a broken love-affair.

  But in spite of the dirt and mustiness, as soon as she saw the flat Zoe had been aware of its beautiful proportions, and a sense of welcome. That first impression never changed. It still gave her pleasure to return after even a short absence, and in this room she worked better and more consistently than anywhere else.

  By lunchtime she had a pile of dirty dusters, but both she and the room were showing signs of improvement. By the time she returned to her work-table, her memory of the night before was ready to be pushed to the back of her mind. The quick flush of excitement as she glanced through a series of sketches was enough to banish Philip from her thoughts.

  She was aware a strong sense of satisfaction. It was good, after years of study, struggle, and a few professional blind-alleys, to be doing what she had always wanted to do, and to be doing it with a certain amount of success. The illustrations before her were at different stages of completion, for a new, expensive edition of Hans Christian Andersen’s Fairy Tales. It was her most lucrative commission so far, and the kind of work at which she excelled, exotic, detailed, subtly coloured, reminiscent of another age.

  Amongst her favourite books as a child had been some first editions illustrated by Arthur Rackham; and as a student she had been influenced by the sure, bold lines of Beardsley and Eric Gill. Her style as an illustrator reflected that early partiality, and a resurgence of interest in Art Nouveau had recently put Zoe’s work in some demand.

  It was immensely gratifying. At last she could think of paying her father a more realistic rent, although true to form, James Clifford said she owed him nothing, that her success was enough and she should enjoy it. Zoe could not forget that he owned the roof over her head, and while he might be a wealthy man with several more profitable leases in his possession, it was no excuse to take his generosity for granted. To counter her protests, he often said that he might be thinking of selling the place now that it was so desirable, but she knew he had no intention of doing so. Since her abortive affair at college, with Kit, James Clifford had been delighted to see his only daughter progress, emotionally and materially, into independent adulthood. Other than her friendship, he wanted nothing more.

  Thoughts of Kit made her smile, particularly when she compared him with Philip Dent. It was like standing a scruffy mongrel beside a well-trained pedigree gun-dog. But while the gun-dog was well-mannered – possibly too well-mannered, on reflection – the mongrel had been more fun to play with. For a while, at least.

  Three

  In the Gulf of Guinea, just south of the Equator, the sun was making its rapid descent into the sea. The heat on deck was phenomenal, every steel plate throwing back what it had absorbed during the course of the day. In crisp white shirt and shorts, Stephen Elliott was taking one of his apparently casual strolls along the raised cat-walk, sharp eyes taking note of maintenance done and yet to do, assessing the progress made by his Chinese crew and balancing it against overtime claimed.

  He climbed up to the fo’c’sle, noting patches of rust which demanded attention, and cast his eye over winches and mooring equipment checked that afternoon. He peered into the anchor housing and leaned over the bow, visually assuring himself that all was secure; and then he relaxed, enjoying the breeze which gave an illusion of coolness, the silence which soothed his ears. The bridge, his cabin, all the after-end accommodation, suffered constant noise, incessant vibration from generators and engines, twenty-four hours a day; these few minutes, while the crew were below and most of his officers in the bar enjoying a drink before dinner, were Stephen Elliott’s moments of luxury.

  The sun’s lower edge touched the horizon; within a moment or two it was gone, leaving night-clouds streaked with red and gold below a purple sky. The high drama of a tropical sunset never failed to please him, expanding his mind beyond the mundane, beyond ship and cargo and the weight of his responsibility for twenty-six lives. For a few minutes he could forget who he was and what he was, and stand outside himself, at one with the sea and the sky.

  A precious moment of freedom, all too brief. Behind him stood the mass of his everyday life, and before his eyes the light was fading.

  Sighing, he made his way back down the shadowy deck, his mind returning to practical matters. In a little over twelve hours they would be arriving at the port of Cabinda; or, more precisely, mooring alongside a single buoy, fifteen miles off the coast. And a day later, having loaded 80,000 tonnes of oil, the Nordic would sail on to Muanda, at the mouth of the Congo, and load some more. With a full cargo, worth something like 30 million dollars, the ship would make its return journey to Philadelphia, eighteen days away across the Atlantic.

  In the way of light relief, the round trip did not have much to recommend it. Six weeks, without mail or shore-leave, of absolute and utter boredom punctuated at three-week intervals by the madness of pilots and port officials, essential repairs, ship-chandlers, agents, surveyors, bills of lading, notes of protest, all designed to keep every last man on his toes from dawn through till dawn, and maybe the dawn after that. The personal test, Stephen always felt, was whether he could stay awake for thirty or forty hours, keep his good temper, forget nothing and no one, and still get his ship safely to sea at the end of it. So far he had never failed, but with every voyage the demands were increasing, the ships getting older, the personnel fewer; what had once been a challenge was becoming, for him, an endurance test.

  As ever, almost halfway through the trip, he found himself wondering what it was that kept him at sea, what streak of masochism drove him back, time after time, when all the fun had long since gone. Habit, he supposed. Money, certainly. And perhaps a residue of hope that the next ship would be better. The present charter was as boring as a bus trip up and down the same stretch of road; except that this particular bus was old and cantankerous and liable to stall at the least convenient moment. And it was no good, he reflected, saying that the engine was somebody else’s responsibility; when you were doing the driving, you were the one held responsible.

  On a deep breath before he went inside, Stephen tried to stop worrying, looked for something, anything, to lighten the boredom which was always his chief enemy. Philadelphia might, just might prove interesting next time round. He smiled, remembering the attractive divorcee who was acting as water clerk for the agent. If he could only steal a few hours away from the ship, he might take her out to dinner, and then...

  But a month later, when the ship arrived back in the States, Stephen’s intentions seemed doomed to remain fantasies. The pretty redhead flirted discreetly, stayed to lunch on board, and accepted his invitation to dinner in town. His hopes rose. But there was a discrepancy with the cargo figures, arguments with marine surveyors and representatives of the receiving company which went on half the night. He phoned her at eight, and then again at half-past ten; she agreed, very gracefully, that there
was no point in waiting for him. Disappointed and frustrated, Stephen returned to his office sharp-tongued and prepared to give no quarter on those cargo figures. His temper was not eased by knowing that he was right and the receiving company wrong.

  She arrived the next morning before they sailed, looking fresh and maddeningly sexy in a crisp white shirt and thigh-hugging black trousers. Despite his lack of sleep and the presence of her superior, all it needed was one regretful, conspiratorial glance, and Stephen was well aware of all that he had missed the night before.

  ‘I’ll be taking a vacation next time,’ she whispered as her boss stood talking to the Chief, ‘but give me a call anyway – maybe we can fix something?’

  ‘I’d like that,’ he murmured, wondering whether the ship would allow more than an hour’s respite. Only after she had gone did Stephen realize that next time round in Philly, he was due to go home. It was a measure of the effect she had on him that he had forgotten. In the course of the next six weeks, however, the MV Nordic managed to erase all such considerations from his mind.

  After dark off the coast of Angola, the engines suddenly failed. With the ringing of the automatic alarms, Stephen cast his book aside and headed for the bridge.

  He took the steps two at a time. On the bridge, he addressed the 3rd Mate. ‘Have you switched the NUC lights on?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. As the alarms ceased their ringing, the young officer addressed him, his voice squeaky with nerves. ‘Ship on the starboard beam, Captain – taking no evasive action.’