by Emma Carroll
Jem picked up his pen again. He looked fidgety and pale.
‘I mean it. I’m not enjoying this any more than you are. Ask Mother if you don’t believe me,’ he said.
*
I’d planned to. Yet that night, noticing the frostiness between us, Mother explained before I had a chance to ask.
‘It seems those men in black cloaks have lost interest in us at last.’
It was true we’d not seen the landowners again since the day they took Old Margaret.
‘Having a young man to keep us in check seems to have worked,’ Mother said, though from the look on her face I wasn’t sure she agreed. ‘I’m sorry it fell to you, Jem, but you were our obvious choice.’
‘He’s our only choice,’ I remarked.
‘And don’t think I’m enjoying it,’ Jem muttered again.
‘Tsk. You’ve taken to it well, son.’ Mother ruffled his hair, frowning as she did so. ‘Though, by my word, these aren’t the locks of an important young man. It’s time you had your first haircut.’
Whilst she got to work on Jem’s curls, I sat on the stool opposite, pulling faces. Both Abigail and Mother wore their yellow hair in long neat plaits, whereas Jem and I had the same dark knotty curls that swarmed about our heads like bees. Slice by slice Jem’s locks fell to the floor. By the time Mother had finished, the difference was startling.
‘You’re the dead spit of Father!’ Abigail gasped, hands cupping her cheeks.
‘Oh Lord, he is,’ Mother agreed.
Frustratingly, I couldn’t remember what our father had looked like. But this serious young man with his long thin face definitely didn’t look like me any more, and I felt bewildered, almost scared. It was as if I’d just said farewell to my dearest friend, and a part of myself in the bargain.
‘Cut mine too,’ I insisted, suddenly.
Mother hesitated. Girls didn’t have haircuts: they plaited and combed their hair, or tucked it neatly under a bonnet.
‘It couldn’t look any worse,’ Abigail reasoned helpfully.
‘Just to the chin, then,’ Mother relented.
A few cuts and it was done. Though I liked smoothing it behind my ears and feeling the air on my neck, it didn’t make me resemble Jem again. If anything, we now both looked like strangers.
4
I finished the boat alone. I was determined to do it: with Jem proving how responsible he was, I was resolved to show I could be too. Though it didn’t stop me nearly exploding with excitement. For days, I couldn’t sleep right, couldn’t concentrate. My brain was a whirl of boatbuilding and sea-sailing, and how far along the coast we’d travel.
Finally, when the boat was ready, I went to find Jem. It was a Sunday, after church. Jem was outside, feeding our chickens. The weather had turned savagely cold these past weeks, and he’d taken to wearing old Mr Redfern’s cloak, which made him look even more unlike himself.
‘The boat’s finished. You coming to try it out?’ I asked, praying he’d say yes. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d laughed and had fun together.
Jem looked at me, eyebrows pinched. ‘On a Sunday?’
The day of rest. Not just hymns in church, but spending the whole day quietly, refraining from all but essential work. Our hamlet observed the rule more and more nowadays, but it still surprised me to hear it from my brother.
‘It’s not work,’ I pointed out. ‘It’ll be a test of sorts. An investigation.’
He thought about it – a bit too long for my liking, but I tried to be patient.
‘Very well,’ he said, finally. ‘As long as we don’t go further out than waist-deep.’
Personally, I’d hoped we’d go along the coast a way. But he’d agreed to come so I was glad. And he was, of course, being sensible: of the two of us, I was the better swimmer, though neither of us was exactly good at it.
‘Promise,’ I answered. ‘We’ll just see if it floats.’
He nodded, emptying the remains of his pail amongst the chickens. The little smile on his face made my heart go skywards.
The boat was where it always was, hidden under leaves and moss. Neither of us had tried moving it again since the first time, and once we’d swept the coverings aside, I was struck by how big and solid it looked – still like a tree trunk, really, despite my best efforts. The makeshift oars I’d fashioned out of twigs didn’t look up to the job, either.
‘I hope it works,’ I muttered, in a sudden rush of worry. There were so many things that could go wrong, and I was now imagining them, all at once.
Jem rubbed his hands purposefully. ‘Only one way to find out.’
With a fair bit of grunting we half dragged, half carried our boat out of the woods and along the path to the beach. Thankfully the only living things to see us were the cows grazing on the common, their heads swinging up to watch as we staggered past.
‘Bet they think we’re mad,’ I observed.
‘Maybe we are,’ Jem replied, which didn’t exactly calm my nerves. Yet he was in good fettle, whistling under his breath, and his cheery mood quickly rubbed off on me.
The boat would float. Jem would be impressed. The sun was shining, the frost almost melted. And the sea – oh, the sea! – was a beautiful pale green, and as flat as a griddle pan. I felt ready to burst. Finally, we were going to sea in our boat!
The second our bare toes touched sand, Jem began walking faster – running, almost, which was no mean feat with such a heavy load.
‘Slow down!’ I laughed, struggling to hold on to my end of the boat.
He didn’t, of course, and nor did I. We charged into the breaking waves, the cold of it making me catch my breath. The little carved-out space where we were meant to sit quickly filled with seawater. As fast as we scooped it out with cupped hands, it came in again.
We were still in the breakers, that was the problem, where any boat – even a vast sailing ship – would be bobbing like a cork.
‘We need to go further out!’ I yelled.
Jem’s enthusiasm began to cool. ‘We agreed not to go too deep …’
But we had to, for the boat to float. Before Jem could stop me I’d clambered on board, pushing aside the oars. The boat tipped so dangerously I was sure the whole thing was going to flip over. Just in time it steadied itself, with me crouched down, gripping the sides.
‘I’m floating!’ I cried. ‘Oh, Jem! Look!’
‘I’m looking!’
Not wanting to be left behind, he tried to scramble up beside me. The whole boat lurched again. I braced myself, ready to be pitched out into the water, yet somehow, sodden and panting, Jem managed to swing his legs up on to the boat.
‘Sit down!’ I insisted.
He crouched opposite me, his knees crushed against mine. The wood was digging into my hips, the small of my back. We were jammed in tight, trembling with cold. Yet the boat was floating. And it kept on floating with us on board.
‘Well, you did it,’ Jem said, a smile spreading across his face. ‘You made a boat.’
I grinned back, a little dazzled.
‘We did,’ I corrected. ‘You helped me.’
He laughed. Shivered. Laughed some more. And all the gloom and nasty, knotty worries of the past few weeks seemed to shrink inside my head. With the sun on our cheeks and the sea breeze stiffening our wet clothes, I felt that sense of peace Father had spoken of seeping into my bones.
Then, like he’d plucked it from the air, Jem said, ‘You’re so much cleverer than me, Fortune.’
I was taken aback. ‘You’re the blessed child of Fair Maidens Lane, not me!’
‘But I truly don’t want to be. It should be Mother or you or Abigail instead,’ he said, and went silent in that thoughtful, scrunched-up-face way of his.
I was almost sorry for him, then, and patted his knee clumsily, which made the boat rock. Life in Fair Maidens Lane used to be simple. As long as we did our work and didn’t bleed to death or set fire to anything, we were pretty much left to ourselves. Now it was as if w
e had an unseen master standing over us, making sure we all behaved.
‘Shall we paddle a bit?’ I said, keen to shake off a return of the gloom.
I realised then I’d lost my oar, which in truth was little more than a bundle of twigs. Luckily, Jem still had his tucked down beside him.
‘We’ll have to take it in turns,’ he said.
‘Five rows each?’ I suggested. ‘Otherwise we’ll go round in circles.’
Jem paddled first, then handed the oar to me. It didn’t do much other than make a splash, and I added it to the fast-growing list of things in the boat I needed to improve on.
Yet the fact of the matter was we were floating. We were at sea. I’d done something useful, and it felt bright and brilliant.
‘Perhaps next time we could try it with a little sail,’ I chattered on, passing the oar back to Jem. ‘Here, take it.’
But he was gripping the sides of the boat.
‘Fortune,’ he said quietly. ‘Have you seen how far out we are? This water certainly isn’t waist-deep.’
5
Despite what Jem thought afterwards, I’d not done it on purpose. When I started paying attention to where we were, the wind and tide had already nudged us into deeper water. The sea beneath us no longer looked green: it was a dark inky-blue. All I felt of the shore-bound waves was a little lift, then a dip. It was as peaceful and gentle as a lullaby. Had it been just me, I’d have stayed out here forever, but Jem was sitting opposite me, sweating.
‘You promised to only go waist-deep,’ he muttered.
‘Don’t fret. We’re only a little way off course.’
‘Yes, with one oar and a leaky boat.’
I thought Jem was overreacting, rather, and it was on the tip of my tongue to tell him to stop being so lily-livered. But when I saw just how far from the shore we were, I grew uneasy myself. The beach had shrunk to a narrow sandy strip, the hill of common land beyond a green blur, dotted with cows. We’d come a decent sixty yards or more into open sea. Away from the shelter of the cove, the wind was picking up, pushing us further out.
‘Right,’ I said briskly. ‘Let go of the sides. I need you to help.’
Thrusting the oar at him, I leaned over the opposite side of the boat, using my hands to scull the water. A few minutes of it and my arms burned with the effort. Then we swapped over – Jem using his hands, me with the oar. It was exhausting, and Jem wouldn’t lean out far, but it seemed to work. We made slow, faltering progress back towards land.
By the time we reached the breakers, Jem already had one leg out of the boat. He jumped down into the shallows, before turning on me.
‘You promised we’d not go too far!’ he cried, his fear turning to temper. ‘What on earth were you thinking, when we can barely swim!’
‘But we made it back, brother, so calm yourself,’ I replied, grinning. ‘We rowed a boat! You and me! We did it, together!’
He shook his head. ‘You’re reckless, you are! You never think things through. You just do them and expect me to follow on behind.’
That pulled me up short.
‘I thought you liked us doing things together,’ I replied. ‘I thought going out in the boat would be fun.’
‘If we’d stuck to the shallow water, maybe. But we could’ve drowned!’
‘It’ll be better next time with two oars, honest it will,’ I tried to convince him.
Jem scrunched up his shirt hem, wringing the water from it. ‘There won’t be a next time! I’m not going anywhere in a boat with you again, so don’t—’ He stopped, mid-rant, staring towards the top of the beach. ‘Who’s that? Up there, look!’
A figure was standing at the place where the river ran across the rocks before soaking into the sand. My first thought was: Mother! Her warning about making trouble was still fresh in my ears.
It wasn’t her.
It wasn’t a woman, even, but a round-bellied man in a black cloak that blew sideways in the wind. On his head was a tall dark hat. The last time I’d seen a man dressed like that was when Old Margaret was taken.
Two children, fooling about in a home-made boat. On a Sunday. We were in big trouble.
There was no point in running when we’d been so squarely caught. Nor did my legs have an ounce of strength left in them. I felt suddenly close to tears. Yet by the time we’d dragged the boat ashore, the man had vanished.
‘We’d better go home,’ Jem said miserably.
Though we left the boat where it was, our quarrel came with us. Thankfully, Mother and Abigail were out when we arrived, so we could at least swap our clothes for dry ones before Mother’s questioning began.
‘What are you two fighting about?’ She demanded, the moment she returned.
With Jem writing at one end of the room, and me whittling wood at the other, it was clear as day we’d had cross words.
‘Ask her, she’s the fool,’ Jem snapped.
‘Well?’ Mother turned to me, hands on hips. ‘What have you done now?’
I bit my lip, on the brink of tears again. I’d wanted to do something useful for the hamlet, and for Jem and me to have fun together like we used to, that was all. But saying so would make me cry and then I’d be like Abigail, who regularly sobbed her way out of trouble.
Instead, I pushed the damp hair off my face and said, as proud as I could, ‘We made a dugout boat and took it to sea, and it almost worked.’
Jem spluttered. ‘We almost perished, more like.’
‘You got scared, that was the problem,’ I pointed out.
‘And you didn’t get scared in the slightest. You didn’t even think we might drown!’
It was true, I hadn’t. But Jem was making me feel like a halfwit and it angered me.
‘Just because I’m braver than you,’ I retorted. ‘Imagine it – a girl with more courage than the Great Leader of our hamlet!’
‘That’ll do, Fortune,’ Mother warned.
I picked up my whittling again, my hands shaking. It took a lot for me to lose my temper, but I’d truly had enough.
‘Tell Mother who saw us down on the beach – go on,’ Jem goaded. ‘Then we’ll see how brave you are.’
Mother looked between us, frowning. ‘Who saw you?’
I put down my knife. I might as well tell her: she’d only wheedle it out of me in the end.
‘A man,’ I said. ‘In a cloak, wearing a black hat. He was watching us from up on the cliff.’
Mother went very still. ‘What did I tell you about keeping out of mischief?’
I could see her panic and felt it rise up in me too. The boat, the risk we’d taken was one line we’d crossed: this went beyond it. For the man was one of those landowners and he’d seen us breaking the Sabbath.
‘I know we’re in trouble, so punish us and get it over with,’ I said.
But it was Jem Mother turned on. ‘Stop bickering with your sister and start acting like the young man you are! I demand it!’
Jem reddened. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it and went out instead, slamming the door behind him.
I stayed in my seat, whittling, for the rest of the day. Yet for all the harsh words and sour tempers that thundered in my brain, I kept thinking about the boat. Jem was right: I hadn’t been scared. Out there on the sea, I’d felt as if I belonged. There would be a next time: I’d make sure of it.
6
Just a few hours later, Mother woke me in the dead of night. The lamp hovering above the bed looked like a fiery evening sun. I was certain I was dreaming. All the more confusing was that Mother’s voice sounded so real: ‘Get up! Get dressed! Keep quiet!’
Our cottage had one big upstairs room under the eaves where we all slept – me and Jem in our little truckle beds, Mother and Abigail on the horsehair mattress they shared.
I’d gone to bed early that evening, still sore with Jem, and he with me. We’d never slept on an argument before, and now everything felt off-kilter and strange. I rolled over, burying my face in the blankets,
hoping Mother would go away.
She didn’t.
‘Quickly now, child!’ she whispered. ‘We’re going on a journey.’
At that, my eyes flew open. I sat up, which let the cold in under the covers.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
Mother put a finger to her lips to stop my questions, then threw me my beloved jerkin, leggings and shirt.
‘Just you, mind. Don’t disturb the others,’ she said, which made me more intrigued because it was clear I’d been singled out. ‘Meet me outside.’
Once she’d gone, I slid out from under the covers and dressed, carefully so as not to wake anyone. Jem’s short hair stuck out above the blankets. Though I still felt hurt and angry with him, it was all mixed up with love.
‘Sleep well, brother,’ I whispered.
Jem didn’t stir. Abigail looked fast asleep, yet I was pretty sure she was watching me as I went down the stairs.
*
Outside, Mother hurried me up the track towards the crossroads. As my eyes grew used to the darkness, I saw the familiar shapes of trees, bushes, then the sharp swing right as we turned inland. With the sea behind us now, we headed uphill towards Nether Stowey, the nearest town, which was where we often went for market day.
‘I’m not in trouble still, am I?’ I asked warily, for I supposed Mother’s curious behaviour must have something to do with the boat.
‘No, you daft girl,’ she replied, but not crossly. ‘Now stop asking questions.’
Worried she might wish she’d chosen another of her children instead, I kept quiet.
We walked briskly. It was a bitter night, the frost sharp, the stars hard. All memories of my warm bed had long gone: I was wide awake, shivering with energy and desperate to know what this was all about. Were we meeting someone? Buying something? About to smuggle Old Margaret out of gaol?
