‘I’m leaving York, looking for another job, something entirely different. I’m not going to say what and where, because if you know, as I said last night, they’ll worm it out of you, and probably come looking. I don’t want that. Not yet, anyway,’ he amended, seeing his brother’s crestfallen glance. ‘Once I get a place, I’ll be in touch.’
‘Why can’t we go together?’
Liam looked up, taking in Robin’s unruly dark hair, the thin, pale face. He was tougher than he looked, but still Liam knew his intention would not suit the younger boy. He might well regret it, probably for the rest of his life. ‘Don’t be stupid. You’ve got a good job, you’ll do well at it. I don’t think you’d care for what I intend to do.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Ask no questions, and you’ll be told no lies.’
Standing four-square across the sandy path, Robin gave a snort of disgust. ‘Then you’re as bad as they are.’
‘Shut up!’ Liam hissed. ‘Do you want to wake the whole house?’ He grasped the handlebars of his bike with a purpose, and told his brother to move. ‘Let me go, before somebody comes out and tries to stop me.’
‘I shall leave anyway,’ Robin announced stubbornly. ‘I was thinking about it last night. I’m going to join up.’
‘Well, that’s a bloody stupid thing to do. You’ll get nowhere in the army.’
‘It’ll get me away from here.’
‘Please yourself then,’ Liam muttered harshly. ‘Make your own mistakes, but you’re not coming with me.’
Pressing forward on the pedals, he edged his brother out of the way. ‘Say goodbye to Tisha for me.’ He turned again and paused. ‘Tell her – tell her I’m sorry, won’t you?’
‘What for?’
‘I don’t know. Everything, I suppose.’
‘What if I see Georgie?’
‘Nothing,’ Liam whispered, turning away. ‘Nothing at all.’
Out there on the towpath, neither of them noticed the face at the window of their bedroom. A pair of blue eyes, fringed with dark lashes, watched their goodbyes with a mixture of envy and pain. Tisha had lain awake all night, listening to whispered words and the creaks of the old house. She had waited in vain for someone to come and comfort her. Nobody came, not even her father, whose favourite she had always been. But he was not her father anymore, so maybe that explained it. She saw her younger brother watching as Liam rode away, and was relieved that he was not going too. As Robin came into the house she went back to her own room, determined to pretend to be asleep. Pride would not let her admit to anyone that she had suffered from their neglect.
In warm, early morning sun, Liam rode past empty cattle pens outside the Walmgate walls, and by the massive barbican turned right onto the broad highroad which led across the East Riding and ultimately to the busy port of Kingston-upon-Hull. By the side of the road, a scuffed and worn mounting block announced a distance of 37 miles. A long way, but if he was lucky, Liam thought, pushing his hat firmly onto his head, he would reach the port before the sun touched the meridian. A sudden sense of his momentous decision made him turn and look back. The old walled city was beginning to stir to yet another day: it did not seem the slightest bit dismayed by his defection.
White limestone defences gleamed in the sun, and the Minster’s towers soared into the blue; below stood Coffee Yard, and strangely, at the thought of it, Liam could have wept for all that he was leaving behind.
But York was part of the past, and for him the past must be a closed book. It was time to press on towards the rest of his life. There would be a berth, no doubt, on some tramp steamer, shipping out of Hull; he could work his passage to somewhere. Destinations, at the moment, were irrelevant.
Nine
The daffodils were almost gone, and what remained of them was being whipped and flattened by the wind. As they left the station Stephen grabbed Zoe to prevent her being blown into the road. Large drops of rain hit the backs of her legs with the force of pennies. She was glad Stephen had brought the car.
The telephone was ringing as they entered the flat. Dropping Zoe’s case at the top of the stairs, he hurried to answer it. At a more leisurely pace she followed, tactfully going into the kitchen to make coffee for them both. It was impossible, however, not to catch something of the conversation, and she wondered who on earth it could be on the other end of the line. Stephen’s replies were curt, his voice so deep with disapproval, she was afraid it must be his ex-wife.
‘Well, it’s bloody short notice,’ he said at last, ‘but I’ll see what I can do... Yes, I’ll make it somehow, but give me an hour to sort things out... You’ll phone me back? Good.’ The sharp release of his breath as he replaced the receiver was eloquent; the single expletive which followed, more so.
At sight of his face, Zoe braced herself; but before she could ask, he took her into his arms, holding her tight and very close. When he released her, there was a difference in him. He reminded her of the Stephen she had known that first day: holding himself back, setting deliberate distance between them.
‘I’m sorry, love. It seems you’ve had a wasted journey.’
‘Nonsense,’ she said bravely, aware of hollowness inside. ‘I’m here and I’m with you – that’s not wasted.’ He lit a cigarette, lost in thought; she was forced to ask for an explanation.
With an abrupt gesture, he apologized. ‘Sorry – thought you’d gathered. That was the company. They want me back, tonight preferably. Teesport – Middlesbrough. It’s a bugger of a place to get to – it’ll have to be a taxi.’
‘Tonight?’ She was astonished and highly indignant. ‘But surely they can’t do this? Your leave’s not up for – how long did you say, another two weeks?’
Stephen stood back, regarding her steadily, one eyebrow raised in that familiar, slightly ironic way he had. ‘Believe me, Zoe, it’s all part of the job. Shipping companies can do what they like. They’re a law unto themselves.’
‘But why the short notice? Surely they knew the ship was coming in?’
‘They did, but the Old Man’s not due off for another month. He was thrown across the wheelhouse last night and broke his leg. Heavy weather, and the ship’s in ballast – no cargo. She was rolling like a pig, apparently.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes.’ Stephen leaned across to look out of the window. Trees by the Minster were still tossing like candy floss. Musing on that, he looked worried. ‘If it continues like this, they’ll never get her in tonight. I’ll have to keep in touch with the agent...’
While Stephen telephoned for a taxi to pick him up at midnight, Zoe inspected fridge and freezer for something with which to make a meal. He had planned to take her out to their favourite restaurant, but with so much to do, there would not be time. She defrosted a couple of thick chops, and by the time his next call was over, had jacket potatoes in the microwave, and was preparing a salad. Not very original, she thought, but quick and nourishing; and with six hours to go, some instinct told her it was better to eat now, before anguish took hold and appetites disappeared completely. Hers, if not Stephen’s. He was used to this, while she was not.
‘There is one bonus to all this,’ he announced, stealing a stick of celery. ‘I don’t know if you recall him saying, when we were up there last weekend, but Mac’s joining as Chief.’
‘Is he?’ she asked with genuine pleasure, having an instant picture of the burly Chief Engineer, with his big red beard and beaming smile. MacDonald Petersen’s mother had been a Scot, his father a Norwegian seaman. Mac had been brought up in Newcastle; now, he and his wife lived in the small market town of Alnwick, in the heart of Northumberland.
She and Stephen had spent a weekend with Mac and Irene; it had been sunny and warm and full of laughter. Smiling, remembering, Zoe reached up to kiss Stephen’s cheek. Bravely, she said, ‘Well then, it should be a good trip for you.’
‘Better than the last one, anyway. And this ship is relatively new, so we shouldn’t have too many problems
.’
They both had cause, later, to remember those words.
‘I expect Irene will be driving Mac to Teesport,’ she said casually, clearing their plates away. Nodding as he lit a cigarette, Stephen was poring over a list of essentials. ‘Do you think,’ she ventured, slowly, ‘that I might come along, too?’
His head came up sharply, eyes narrowing through a haze of blue smoke. ‘To the ship? I’d rather you didn’t.’
It was curtly said, and Zoe turned abruptly for the kitchen. To cover her distress she turned on the radio, and as fate would have it, the voice of Phil Collins filled the air, singing apt and emotive lyrics from Against All Odds.
A cry from the heart of a man who had watched his wife walk away; after all she’d been to him, after all they had shared, he was left with nothing more than memories. The singer’s impassioned pleading for her to turn around, to see him as he really was, so echoed Zoe’s feelings for Stephen that she could have cried out. Sloshing water into the sink she let emotion flow with it, hoping those words, that music, were saying as much to Stephen as to herself.
She whispered fiercely, echoing the lyrics as she clattered dishes on to the draining board, feeling the truth of every phrase. There was much she wanted to say, and a dozen reasons why he would do anything but listen; his going would indeed leave an empty space, and as for the odds against him coming back to her...
Stephen snapped the radio off. The silence, for a second, was tangible.
‘That,’ he said roughly, ‘is why I’ve always said I won’t have a woman standing on a godforsaken quayside, waving goodbye to me!’
He turned on his heel, slamming a door after him. But she could hear him in the bedroom, banging about as he threw things into his suitcase. Her own, she noticed, was still standing in the hall where it had been abandoned earlier. For a moment, she considered picking it up and heading straight back to London. After all, what was the point in staying? He was going away, and Zoe had a stomach-churning suspicion that half a year’s absence was going to be crippling, and with no guarantee at the end of it that she would see him again.
If he had said nothing at all, she could have hoped, but Stephen had made it abundantly plain that he did not expect her to wait for him. She was young, he said, and had a lot of living to do; there was really no point in making commitments she was bound to regret later. It did not seem to matter that she was ready to make such a commitment; he did not want it, and that knowledge stopped the words on her tongue. He seemed to read her mind, and whenever sentiment threatened, managed to turn it aside, as though he was determined, at all costs, to divert her.
It negated everything that had passed between them, left her doubting every instinct that said he did care, that these few weeks had been as important to him as they were to her.
Working at home in London, while Stephen had been helping his aunt move into her new flat, Zoe had been thinking things over. It seemed to her that there had been a subtle change in him, dating back to the first night of their arrival in London, to that scene with Clare, and the mention of Philip Dent. After that, things were never as spontaneous again. It was as though the seed of doubt had crept in, perhaps reminding him of other hurts and the transitory nature of past relationships.
Whether or not he trusted Zoe was immaterial, the barriers were up and likely to remain so.
She had steeled herself to raise the matter this weekend, to override all his objections and say what was on her mind; and, if necessary, to explain Philip Dent once and for all. She had been determined to tell Stephen to stop treating her like an inexperienced girl, as though his extra decade and one failed marriage made him an expert on life and love. Perhaps she did have a lot to learn, but as the child of divorced parents she had gained a certain wisdom; and she was not entirely green where men were concerned. She knew what she felt for Stephen, and his magnanimous gift of freedom was not one to treasure.
Surely she had meant something to him, something more than just a pleasant interlude between voyages? Did she not deserve more than just a note of thanks and a quick farewell?
But while she planned fine speeches, time had been running out. If only she had known. She could have put the work on hold and spent these last few days with Stephen. Plagued by such thoughts, when he reappeared, looking contrite, she could do no more than raise an abandoned glass of wine in mock salute.
‘Cheers,’ she said, unable to curb the edge to her voice. ‘Would you rather I left now, or do you want to kiss me goodbye, first?’
‘I don’t want to kiss you goodbye at all,’ he muttered grimly, ‘because I don’t want to bloody well go. They’ve cut two weeks off my leave – two weeks I was hoping to spend with you.’
Anger melted at that, bringing a lump to her throat as he took her into his arms.
‘I’m sorry, love,’ he whispered, ‘it’s the leaving.’ He gave a rueful grin as he released her. ‘Like going to prison for six months – except you don’t get time off for good behaviour!’
Despite the gallows humour, she could feel the tension and the conflict. It seemed to Zoe that he could not make up his mind whether he wanted her there, or wished her far away. Wanting him to know how she felt, she kissed him passionately; but even as he responded they were interrupted by the telephone.
Swearing, he went to answer it. This time Zoe listened unashamedly. It was obviously some hard-pressed worker from the company’s London office, having to stay late that Friday night to clear things up. Stephen’s replies were all in the affirmative this time, although he did express anxiety about the weather. As he listened he jotted down details and instructions. Repeating the agent’s name, address and telephone number, he assured his interrogator that he would meet the ship as soon as she came alongside.
When he came off the phone, he stood for a moment, lost in thought. Then, abruptly, he turned to Zoe. ‘Do you really want to come up to Teesport? I warn you, it could mean hanging around all night...’
She struggled for nonchalance. ‘Well, I did think it might be interesting,’ she remarked. ‘My previous experience of ships has been limited to cross-Channel ferries.’
For the first time that evening, he laughed. ‘I think you’ll find a hundred-thousand tonne tanker somewhat different!’ He picked up the telephone. ‘I’ll get onto the agent, then, and arrange a dock-pass for you.’ Briefly, he grinned at her. ‘Can’t have you being mistaken for a lady of the night, can we?’
There were other calls to make: one to Joan, who was obviously being kind and refusing to hold him up. She had a message for Zoe, telling her to get in touch, soon. Then a call to his sister, who was less understanding, and seemed to want to talk for hours. Zoe began to think he would never be finished, and the hands of the clock seemed to be spinning round. The wind, however, was lessening. With a final call to the agent in Middlesbrough, who said conditions on the coast were looking hopeful, Stephen cleared the line and left the receiver off the hook.
With a sigh of immense weariness, he pulled Zoe to his side. ‘Let’s go to bed.’
He loved her tenderly, with a long, slow gentleness that made her sad. Although she swore she would not give in to entreaties, the effort required was almost beyond her.
She saved her tears for the shower, afterwards, but he knew she was crying. He held her closer while the water washed over them both.
Carefully applied make-up and a fluffy pink sweater gave an impression of cheerfulness. Waiting for Stephen to finish packing, she made sandwiches and a flask of coffee, which would be welcome, he said, if they had a long wait on an exposed quayside.
He joined her in the sitting room, looking business-like in a pale grey suit and tie. With his Burberry and a thick scarf over his arm, he peered down into Bedern, looking for the taxi. Zoe’s eyes were on the Minster, hazy in the driving rain. Even in that weather, the chimneypots of Goodramgate stood out like a theatrical silhouette.
‘Well,’ Stephen said, glancing at his watch, ‘it’s midnight – I hope
he’s not going to be late.’
Almost before his words were out, a pair of headlights lit up the courtyard below. Simultaneously, other lights were extinguished, and the Minster disappeared like the good fairy in a pantomime. A nightly occurrence, Stephen said, but Zoe had never witnessed it before; it seemed ominous and she shivered.
Her spirits revived once they were on the road. The A19 was practically deserted, their driver silent in his desire to do his job and get back home again.
Speeding through a sleeping village, her hand enclosed in Stephen’s, Zoe suddenly thought of Liam. In the next moment, Stephen mentioned the diary, which at the last moment he had slipped into his pocket. He said he would give it some attention while he was away, produce a typed-up version, which he could photocopy and send on to Zoe.
‘It will give me something to do between ports,’ he said dryly. ‘Several weeks at sea without a break can be mind-bending.’
‘Any idea where you’ll be going?’
‘Mediterranean, I think. But from there it could be anywhere.’
About to ask him for his address, Zoe bit the question back. He would probably give it to her of his own volition; if not, she would get it from Joan. Inhibited by the driver’s presence, she thought it better to stick to impersonal matters.
‘How did Liam get to Australia? Is it mentioned in the diary?’
‘Only the anniversary of his arrival date. January 1914. Poor sod – he didn’t have long there, did he? Eight months in Australia – then the war broke out and he was on his way back again.’
‘Would he have emigrated, do you think?’
‘He might have done,’ Stephen said doubtfully, ‘but for that he’d have had to get parental permission. And I get the impression he left rather abruptly. No, I think he probably worked his passage.’
‘Could he do that?’
‘Plenty did. In my time, too. Signed on as deckhand, looking for a bit of adventure, wanting to see the world, that sort of thing, and found it was a bloody sight tougher than they expected. Or they met a girl in one of the ports, or saw Australia as the land of opportunity – which it was. Back then, it was the easiest thing in the world to jump ship out there. If you kept your nose clean for a couple of years, you were all right, Blue, you could stay!’
Liam's Story Page 16
