The White Pearl

by Kate Furnivall

  ‘This isn’t about her, is it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s about you.’ His brown eyes grew fierce, though he spoke in no more than a whisper. ‘It’s about the fact that you refuse to behave like other women, that you want control.’

  There was a moment of silence between them, like a transparent wall of ice, and Connie felt the sweat freeze on her skin. ‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘I want to feel in control of my own life. To know that I am responsible for my decisions, just as you are for yours.’

  ‘Don’t think for one moment that I will let you take control of my son’s life.’

  ‘Our son.’

  He turned his head away from her. ‘Read your book.’

  19

  It was three o’clock in the morning. Connie sensed a shift in the wind, and knew Fitzpayne had hoisted more sail. She raised her head off the pillow, listening hard. Yes, the boat was holding steady before a following wind and moving fast. Beside her, Nigel was snoring – but discreetly – forced by his leg to sleep on his back, so she dressed in the dark, made a pot of tea in the galley with scarcely a sound and climbed up on deck.

  The night air rushed at her, slapping her in the face. It woke her out of the numbness that had gripped her ever since Nigel had said my son, in a way that told her loud and clear that he could take the boy from her if he chose. She stood on deck, adjusting to the roll of long unfettered waves and knew they had reached the sea. She could smell its breath and taste the salt on her lips. They were carrying full canvas aloft, and a host of silver-winged moths had clustered around the lamp at the stern like a shimmering coat of new paint.

  Johnnie lay dozing on one of the benches, but he must have worked hard earlier to hoist so much sail. Fitzpayne stood at the helm taking a bearing, and in the moment when he was unaware of her presence because of the sound of the wind overlaying her footsteps, she saw his profile clearly. In the reflected light from the lamps she was struck by the strong lines of it, and how it seemed to her that it had changed in some subtle way, as though the bones had realigned overnight.

  Was it The White Pearl that had done that to him? Was it the water flowing beneath her, and the wind streaking through the rigging high above him that had stripped the stiffness from his manner and the tension from his movements? He swayed with the deck as though he were a part of it, and his hair was no longer swept back in a hard line, but blew at will in dark brown tendrils across his face.

  ‘Tea?’ Connie offered.

  She startled a laugh out of him. ‘Thank you.’

  He accepted the cup from her hand, and as he did so she could see his eyes coming back from somewhere else, somewhere private and engrossing. She realised again that she knew nothing about this man.

  ‘Don’t you ever sleep?’ she asked.

  ‘I think it is Flight Lieutenant Blake who is need of his berth. He has crewed well for me tonight.’

  ‘Taking my name in vain, old chap?’ Johnnie sat up and flexed his shoulder in its sling, shaking the knots out of it. They all spoke softly so as not to disturb those sleeping below.

  ‘There’s a cup of tea for you down in the galley, Johnnie,’ Connie said. ‘You must be exhausted. Get some sleep, it’s my watch now.’

  Johnnie stood and yawned. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. Go and rest up that poor shoulder of yours.’

  ‘Give me a shout in a couple of hours and I’ll be …’

  ‘Go!’

  He laughed, touched her arm gratefully and vanished through the hatchway.

  ‘Poor Johnnie,’ Connie murmured. ‘He hates being stuck here with his bad shoulder just when all his comrades are taking to the skies.’ She tipped her head back to stare up at the great arc of black clouds, and for a moment it was impossible to tell whether the sea was above or below her. Just the swell of its breathing in her ears.

  ‘I’ll take her for a spell,’ she said. ‘Put your feet up on the bench.’

  Fitzpayne hesitated. She could see in his face that he intended to decline, reluctant to yield mastery of the yacht. But as though remembering who owned her, he suddenly released his grip on the wheel and stepped to one side. Connie took the helm.

  ‘Hold her on a heading ten degrees south,’ he said.

  She glanced at the compass in its brass casing in front of her, lit by a small oil lamp, and nodded agreement. She could feel the pull of the current and she held her steady. In the darkness there was nothing to see but the bow lamp up ahead, and the shadowy shapes of the mast and the dinghy stowed on top of the coach roof. Oddly, she loved the isolation that the night granted, relished the freedom of seeing nothing and being able to steer her life in any direction she chose. Around her, the waves were black but for a gleam of breaking crests.

  ‘You’ve changed.’

  Fitzpayne’s voice came out of the night at her, though she could barely make him out in the shadows of the deck, just the tip of his cigarette like a firefly at rest.

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ she responded.

  His quiet chuckle was stolen by the wind. Surely he was the one who was different, not her. A sail flapped noisily for a moment, distracting them both as the wind veered, and she heard him tightening one of the stays on the port side. The firefly leaped overboard and drowned.

  ‘You’ve changed,’ he said again softly. ‘Since you’ve been on the boat.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes, you’ve come out of your shell.’

  ‘Was I ever in a shell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He lit another cigarette, the flame of the match cupped in his hand, but it caught the expression in his eyes as he looked at her and she was struck by the intensity of it, as though he wanted to reach down her throat and take something from within her. But what was it he wanted? These were not the eyes of a man who would feel constrained by the conventions of politeness.

  ‘Yes,’ he repeated, ‘one with damn great cracks in it, but still a shell to hide behind.’

  ‘I think you are mistaken.’

  ‘Do you?’

  He approached her, his bare feet silent on the boards, only the movement of the new firefly in his hand announcing his whereabouts. When he came within the circle of dim light around the compass, he handed her the cigarette with a courteous tip of his head.

  ‘You laugh differently, you move differently, you smile as if you mean it. I can see now,’ he murmured, ‘why …’ He stopped himself abruptly.

  ‘Why what?’ Connie asked.

  He shrugged and withdrew back into the darkness. ‘A night like this sometimes tempts words out of us that are best left unsaid.’

  ‘Tell me something about yourself, Mr Fitzpayne.’

  ‘Fitz.’

  ‘You know too much about me.’

  ‘More than you think, maybe.’ It was a whisper. For a second Connie thought she had misheard, especially when he continued as though he had said nothing.

  ‘There’s nothing much to know about me. I deal in boats, as I told you before. Very dull.’

  ‘What brought you out to the Far East in the first place?’

  There was a pause and the boat sighed. ‘You and I both came here,’ he said quietly, ‘looking for the same thing.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘For excitement. For a sense of freedom.’

  She laughed. ‘Well, I certainly failed to find them. What about you?’

  ‘I’ve had my share of them in the past. Now I’m living a quiet life.’

  She didn’t believe him, but let the lie float away on the breeze. ‘I don’t imagine Singapore will be quiet.’

  She drew on her cigarette and pictured the crowds of refugees like themselves who must be pouring into the city, fleeing from the advancing enemy troops. Nigel was determined that he would eventually return to the Hadley Estate with his family intact and in tow, to take up where he had left off with his rubber, but she had no faith in such illusions. The world he had revelled in wa
s shattered for ever, and whatever replaced it would be a totally changed social structure, she was convinced. Whoever ultimately took control of Malaya – whether Japanese or Europeans, or maybe even the gentle Malays themselves – the struggle would be intense and the price high. But she had no intention of being a part of it.

  Nigel had shut up the house with deep regret, had even spent days burying some of the more valuable possessions in secret hideaways on the estate, but Connie had taken almost nothing. Just a handful of clothes. A couple of gold rings. A pearl necklace. They were her insurance, and she would wear them all the time, even in bed. She didn’t trust Sai-Ru Jumat’s evil spirits. Especially when she recalled the grey lines of sorrow on her husband’s face when he locked the front door of Hadley House for the last time, and cradled the key on his palm as though it were something precious. Her heart went out to him. This was where he belonged, this hot, humid, unbearable country. She understood that, understood how much he was surrendering for the love of his son.

  When The White Pearl’s sails unfurled and carried them away from Palur, Connie knew that Nigel’s heart was wrenched from his chest and his sense of self dislocated. So she forgave his moods and his sharp words, and tried to curb the rush of pleasure that overwhelmed her each time she looked ahead along the fine lines of the boat’s bow and saw a world waiting for her out there.

  ‘Mrs Hadley.’

  Connie gave a start, unaware that Fitzpayne had moved closer on silent feet. He was scrutinising her carefully, and she thought he might lay a steadying hand on the wooden spokes of the helm, but he didn’t. She could feel the energy of him, sharp and focused.

  ‘A boat is not a place that offers much privacy.’ His voice was low, tucked in among the sounds of the rigging. ‘There are things that need to be said between us.’

  ‘Mr Fitzpayne, the only thing I need is to get us away as far and as fast as I can.’

  He nodded. ‘You have a fine son. I can understand your rush to take him somewhere safer. The question is, where?’

  ‘To Singapore. We agreed.’

  ‘You’re right to leave Palur. The Japanese will sweep down through the peninsula of Malaya like a knife through a peach, destroying Percival’s army. Yamashita’s force will show no mercy to any British who are foolish enough to remain behind.’

  She shivered, despite the warm night air. ‘I have friends still in Palur.’

  ‘You can’t save everyone, Mrs Hadley.’ She heard, rather than saw, a slight smile in his voice. ‘And our journey south may not be … smooth sailing.’

  ‘I am very aware of that.’

  She glanced warily up at the mute black sky. The sky had become something she didn’t trust any more, and for a moment they listened together for the sound of aircraft engines but there were only the murmurs of the boat and the purring sighs of the sea. They both knew how precarious their position was.

  ‘I feel responsible,’ Connie admitted. She had not meant to say it, but the words spilled out without warning. ‘Responsible for the lives of the people on this boat, because I suggested this method of escape.’

  She heard his impatient release of breath in the darkness. ‘Each one of these people – except your son – made their own decision to come on board The White Pearl. They are responsible for themselves. Don’t forget, had they stayed in Palur, they may already be dead.’

  ‘I know.’ She gave a slight tilt of her shoulders. ‘But still.’

  Suddenly he leaned forward, his face close to hers, and she could feel his breath mingle with the breeze on her cheeks. ‘Listen to me,’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Can you shoot?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, a shotgun. In England I used to …’ She let the words trail away as she realised what he was asking. He didn’t mean Can you shoot a pheasant?

  She looked at him steadily. ‘Yes, I can shoot.’

  Without a word, he drew an object from his waistband under his black tunic, took one of her hands in his and placed something metal and heavy in it. Without even looking, she knew it was a gun.

  ‘It’s loaded,’ he said. ‘Keep the safety catch on … until you need it.’

  Her throat grew dry and her heart jumped at her ribs. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and was astonished to hear her voice as calm as if she were thanking him for a cigarette.

  The metal that had lain next to his flesh felt warm against her palm, and its weight was greater than she expected. She glanced down at it. It was a machine designed for killing. The thought appalled her, but at the same time the solidity of it in her grip made her feel stronger, more invincible. Is this why men start wars? Because once you have a weapon in your hand, you long to use it.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘One more thing. We don’t know how long we’ll have to be on this boat. You should start to ration the food.’

  ‘Mummy, come and look at this.’

  ‘At what, darling?’

  ‘A boat.’ Teddy was whispering behind his hand the way he did when he had a secret to tell. ‘Come and see.’

  She had been half-heartedly completing a crossword on deck under the shade of her parasol, but abandoned it readily for her son. Nigel and Johnnie were below, playing chess in the saloon, keeping an eye on Harriet. Connie had announced over breakfast that food would be strictly rationed from now on, only to have Harriet flare up at her in annoyance. So Nigel had been appointed as official watchdog over supplies: one biscuit per person mid-morning, no more scoffing a plateful. But it was the water supply that concerned Connie most. If they were caught on the boat for any length of time, who knew when they could next take on fresh water? So from now on, washing water was restricted, and clothes and dishes had to be washed in sea water.

  On deck, Teddy had wedged himself in the stern, scouring the horizon with his father’s binoculars all morning and jotting down notes in his dairy with his new pencil, licking the point each time he started afresh, just the way his father did. Connie wondered what on earth he found to write about, but she didn’t intrude. Henry was taking his turn at the helm trying to hold course, as awkward as a duck in mud, while Fitzpayne called out instructions and sheeted the jib to leeward. The wind was fitful today, and Connie had to hide her impatience at their slow progress. She made her way aft to Teddy’s perch and looked out over the water in the direction that his small arm was pointing. Short green seas had replaced the heavy swell, but the horizon was empty.

  ‘I can’t see anything, sweetheart. Anyway, we’ve spotted quite a few boats in the Straits already. Lots of other people are also on the move to sail somewhere safer.’

  Teddy frowned, and she noticed how tanned his skin was becoming, the freckles like corn dust on his nose.

  ‘This is different.’ He was whispering again. ‘It’s one of the pinisiqs, and it has been trailing behind us all morning.’

  ‘What on earth is a pinisiq?’

  ‘Oh, Mummy! It’s one of the native boats, the kind they carry cargo in.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. They have sharp bows and are fast. With the mainsail on a standing gaff.’

  ‘What a lot you know, Teddy.’

  He shook his head at her, losing patience. ‘Look!’ He pushed the binoculars into her hand.

  Immediately the waves seemed to dash up into her face and she backed off a step. Every lacy white edge and green sinuous valley of water leaped into life with utmost clarity. She swung the binoculars up towards the horizon, and after a minute of hunting she found a long bowsprit with three foresails far in the distance.

  ‘That’s miles away, Teddy.’

  ‘But it’s always there.’ His brown eyes looked up at hers with concern. ‘It never comes closer and it never disappears.’ He leaned his weight against her hip, and she had to bend to hear his final words. ‘I think it’s chasing us.’

  Suddenly Fitzpayne appeared at her elbow and crouched down, so that he was on a level with Teddy. ‘You have sharp eyes, young man.’
/>   ‘Is it chasing us?’

  Fitzpayne chuckled to himself and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Connie noticed that his hands were large, far broader than Nigel’s, and seem to swallow her son’s small bones.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘she’s not chasing us. Most probably trying to ship her cargo to Singapore before the Jap planes start crawling over the sky. It will be dangerous to trade from now on, so there will be shortages of everything.’

  ‘Maybe they’re pirates,’ Teddy suggested.

  ‘No,’ he smiled, ‘not even Indonesian pirates are stupid enough to risk Jap torpedoes.’

  ‘Maybe I should have a cutlass.’

  ‘A cutlass?’

  ‘Or a knife in my belt.’ Teddy twanged his elastic belt hopefully, and its snake buckle popped open. ‘In case we are attacked.’

  ‘Tuan Teddy,’ Fitzpayne said in a stern voice, ‘the trouble with carrying a knife is that one day you’ll end up killing someone.’

  Connie looked hard at Fitzpayne and then walked back to her crossword, drawing her parasol low over her face, safe from prying eyes.

  Too much thinking. That was the trouble with the boat. Maya could hear the thoughts of everyone rustling and scratching, jostling each other, rushing in purple and red streaks up and down the deck, tumbling down the stairs into the bowels below.Too many thoughts.Too heavy for the boat.

  By day, she refused to lift her head above the height of the sides of The White Pearl. If she looked the waves in the face she knew they would open their mouths and swallow her, so she crouched down on her blanket in the sharp end of the boat behind the dinghy on the funny roof of the saloon. It was best here, tucked away where Iron-eyes couldn’t see her if she kept her head down, but the voices trickled between the open slats that allowed air into the saloon below, and she heard things. Things she wasn’t meant to hear.

  She heard the mem with hair as black as tar crying, ‘We’re all going to be killed.’ Her man, the one with the loud voice and the big belly, told her ‘Buck up’, and Maya wondered what it meant. She heard him mutter to Tuan Hadley that he wouldn’t let his wife parade around on the boat in just shorts and a thin sleeveless shirt like Mem Hadley did, and she heard the heat in Tuan’s voice when he swore, ‘Damn her! Why won’t she do as she’s told?’