‘It’s unlucky, to have a corpse on board.’
‘If we put into port it’ll delay us getting home. Hanging about until the fish is spoiled is what I’d call unlucky.’
‘There’s that many fish there’s hardly room for him in the fish room, and hardly any ice.’
‘There’s plenty on the ship. We’ll hack some of that up and stow him in it on one of the shelves. He’ll have to go in the fish room, there’s nowhere else for him.’ He paused, gazing at the skipper. ‘Poor bugger! He was so terrified of not making a trip, I reckon that’s what killed him.’
‘He nearly killed us; I know that,’ said Jackie. ‘He must ha’ died happy, though – watching us hauling all that fish in.’
‘On second thoughts, we’ll leave him in his bunk overnight – make sure he really is dead before we put him down there,’ Alec said.
He told the sparks to radio the owners, then leaving Jackie and the third hand on the bridge Alec took the skipper’s dead weight over his shoulder and carried him down to his cabin. The crew looked on, making no wisecracks, unusually for them.
So – I’m in command now, Alec thought, after laying the lifeless skipper on his bunk. He straightened the body and closed the skipper’s eyes and gazed at him for a moment or two, then went to the chart room to begin copying the charts, especially marking the spot where they’d found the ‘fish shop’.
The following day he went to check on the body. It felt as cold as clay, no sign of life at all, so he sent Jackie to tell the crew to hack enough ice off the upperworks to cover the skipper, and leave him to lie in state in the fish room. The ship looked like a floating iceberg and was listing a bit, but the danger of her turning turtle was gone. He gave no orders to chop the rest of the ice away. Let the men have a rest. They were sailing south; let the warmer latitudes melt the ice off and then the list of the ship would cure itself. He went to the bridge to relieve the watch, opened the window for a sighting, and quickly shut it again, against the icy sea-spray.
Farewell to the Arctic, to its cold grandeur, its cruel beauty, and its changelessness. It had relented, and it was letting them escape with tons of its treasure. He stood on the bridge with all his senses sharpened, glad to be going home, but acutely aware of the beauty of this awful place, which seemed outside of time. Time meant nothing here. The Arctic breathed eternity, the harmony of nature – and something profound, beyond description. He kept still, barely breathing, the better to feel it. With his senses so alert the throb of the engine seemed to him the very heartbeat of the ocean, of Creation itself. A strange ecstasy took hold of him, until even the ice burns on his hands no longer pained him. He could never have put it into words, he only knew that the vast, empty wastes of the Arctic had infected him with a fever he would never shake off, and he would be drawn back to these cold, inhuman wastes time and time again, in a way that some might call a death-wish.
Chapter 46
‘No, I’ll get these. I’m working, you’re not,’ Janet said the following Monday afternoon, handing the barman the price of two halves of lager.
Lynn picked up the glasses and went directly to a table near the roaring coal fire. ‘Well, Graham earns a very good salary, you know,’ she said.
‘How much of this good salary do you see?’
‘Not a lot. But that’s because we’ve got a big mortgage, and he’s got a big car, and he needs a skiing holiday now and then.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah,’ Lynn said. ‘He’s in Austria for a week, on the piste.’
‘On the piss as well, I suppose.’
‘I doubt it. That’s not really Graham’s style.’
‘No, it’s not, come to think.’
‘He says married couples don’t have to take their holidays together, just because their parents did. Things are different, these days. More and more couples are taking separate holidays. It’s the latest thing, according to him.’ Lynn paused, and took a sip of lager.
‘When do you get yours, then?’
‘When I’ve got the money to pay for it, I suppose – maybe sometime after Simon’s left home and I’m back at work. I suspect his mother’s paid for his. She thought he looked pale the other week. I never saw it; he looked all right to me, but hey presto, this week he’s flying away on a winter holiday. There’s nothing Graham wants that Graham shouldn’t have, to his mother’s way of thinking. Three expensive new suits, three pairs of Italian leather shoes and half a dozen new shirts? Needed for his job. Golf club membership? He’s got to meet the right kind of people. Holidays abroad?’
‘He’s got to meet the right kind of tart, maybe?’ Janet suggested.
‘Well, for his health, you know,’ Lynn emphasised. ‘But when Simon needs a new pair of shoes, it’s my dad we have to go shopping with, and I freeze all day because I daren’t put the heating on.’
Janet shook her head. ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Is he up to his old tricks, do you reckon?’
‘I don’t know about that, but there’s not much I can do about it if he is. I’ve got no job, no money, no home of my own and nobody to look after Simon, now my mother’s baled out. And he likes his school, and he likes the house, and I don’t want to rock his little boat again, so I’m stuck with it.’
‘I don’t envy you.’
‘I’m not downhearted,’ Lynn said. ‘I’m going to make it crack, this week. I haven’t got to sit in waiting for his nibs coming home every night, so I’m going to have our Margaret and her lads staying for a day or two. I’ll get them out for walks with the dog. Then I’ll go visiting people.’
‘Hmm, must be nice to be a lady of leisure.’
‘It’s not. It’s lonely and boring, most of the time, and you feel as if you’re drifting, instead of getting somewhere. I live for the time Simon gets out of school.’
‘Shit!’ Janet repeated. ‘Well, I’m on an early on Wednesday. Come for your tea, and bring Simon. Dave can drop you both off at home before he goes for a pint.’
‘Goes for a pint? You never used to be able to prise him away from the telly.’
‘Oh, well, he’s made a few pals at the Tap and Spile, and they’re on a mission to have a drink in all the oldest pubs in Hull. Not a pub crawl, they pick a different one every week, and stay in it all night.’
‘You should go with him.’
‘No thanks. If I’ve been on an early I’m too tired, and if I’ve been on a late he’s already gone. Anyway, I’m not interested in old pubs, and I quite like having the house to myself some nights.’
‘I know, but maybe you should make the effort to get out with him.’
‘I can see “other women” written all over your face, Lynn. Don’t worry about that – it’ll never happen. Not with dull old Dave,’ Janet said.
Chapter 47
Lynn would have loved to take the whole family to spend a day or two with her in Cottingham, but Margaret wouldn’t leave the house, and young Jim wouldn’t leave his mother. After the younger three boys had been in her house for a couple of hours, Lynn decided it had been for the best. Margaret was better at home, having a rest from them and the sort of high jinks going on in her living room.
‘Ooooh! Ooooh!’ Six-year-old George, the most excitable of the brothers, was covered in a tablecloth, slinking round with his hands in the air, pretending to be a ghost and making wailing noises to frighten eight-year-old Geoffrey, the most placid of them.
Geoffrey took cover behind Lynn. ‘Stop him, Auntie Lynn! Stop him,’ he shrieked.
‘Stop it, George,’ she demanded, whereupon George was in fits of giggling at his own antics and the highly satisfying reaction they were getting. ‘Stop him, Auntie Lynn, stop him,’ he mimicked, and ignoring Lynn he continued alternately baiting Geoffrey and then splitting his sides with laughter, so much so that he infected all the boys, and Lynn couldn’t help laughing herself, despite being really annoyed with him.
‘I’m a ghost, and I’ll fart on your head,’ George laughed, beside himself with
merriment. He went one better: ‘I’ll pee on your head!’
His threats were accompanied by shrieks of laughter from all the others, including Simon.
George repeated his threats.
‘Shut up, George!’ Lynn ordered.
Goaded beyond endurance, but laughing in spite of his anger, Geoffrey retaliated. ‘I’ll piss on yours, then!’
George stopped laughing and pointed an accusing finger at him. ‘Ooh, Auntie Lynn! Geoff said a bad word!’
Then they were all in hysterics again, and much as she tried to stop herself Lynn was almost as helpless with laughter as the boys. How familiar it all sounded, and how Hessle Road! But looking after them was harder work than she had anticipated. Better get them outside, to run some of their energy off.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We’re taking the dog for a walk. Last to get his coat on is a cissy.’
Lynn lifted her coat and the dog lead off the pegs in the hallway, prompting a torrent of excited barking from Lassie, to add to the din. Whatever would the neighbours have thought, if she’d had any, she wondered? Then they were out of the door and away up Snuff Mill Lane.
They should have been exhausted by the time they got back from their cross-country run – climbing trees, playing hide and seek behind hedges and getting their feet wet in ditches. Instead, they were invigorated, and had more energy than ever. Lynn fed them on piles of sandwiches, and then they played Snakes and Ladders.
‘Our Simon’s posh,’ five-year-old Joe observed, after a few games.
Simon’s accent registered a few miles distance from Hessle Road, but it was nowhere near the Home Counties. He looked at Lynn. ‘I’m not posh, am I, Mum?’
‘Mum!’ George scoffed. ‘He says mum!’
‘No,’ Lynn answered Simon. ‘You’re not posh.’
‘He’s posh,’ Geoffrey affirmed, very quietly.
‘He’s not posh,’ Lynn insisted.
‘I’m not!’
‘You are.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Lynn protested.
‘Posh boy, posh boy!’ George chanted, quickly joined by Geoffrey, evidently glad somebody else was the target, for once.
‘Bathtime!’ Lynn announced. ‘George and Joe first. Upstairs, you two.’
She gave them Ovaltine afterwards, hoping it would make them sleep. She read them bedtime story after bedtime story, and finally tucked them up and went downstairs to sort out the washing. No sooner had she reached the foot of the stairs than she heard them bouncing on the beds. She shouted a warning. The bouncing stopped and Lynn went through to the kitchen, noting the degree of wear on their clothes; not bad on Geoffrey’s, worse on George’s, and some of Joe’s – youngest and last in line for the cast-offs – were near to rags.
The bouncing started again, accompanied by giggles from all of them, including Simon. Another shouted warning stopped it. Lynn filled her twin tub washing machine and put half the clothes in. More bouncing and giggling called for another trip to the foot of the stairs and another warning.
All was quiet. Lynn returned to the washing, and a gentle creaking started again. A shouted warning from downstairs stopped them for a couple of minutes, and then that gentle rhythmic creaking began again, becoming less gentle by degrees until she had to shout again and threaten them with the wooden spoon across their backsides. The effect was short-lived. After a few quiet moments, their bouncing and their stifled giggles started again and went on until eleven o’clock, doubtless with giddy, tormenting George as the ringleader and inspirer of all the mischief. Lynn couldn’t help laughing at him. He might be naughty, but it was good to have a bit of life in the house.
She finished the washing and put the damp clothes on a clothes horse. After setting it around the dying embers of the living-room fire she went to bed, and was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
She was roused a couple of hours later by a terrific screaming and wailing. Feeling as if she’d been dragged from the tomb she followed the noise to the bedroom that Geoffrey and George were sharing. Geoffrey was awake and quiet, George still asleep, wrestling with the bedclothes and howling like a banshee. Simon and Joe arrived and Simon switched the light on.
‘He’s having a nightmare,’ Lynn said, trying to wake George. He fought her off as if his life depended on it.
She took hold of his hands, and squeezed them tight. He awoke, looking dazed.
‘Right, back to bed, you lot,’ Lynn ordered the others, but George was fearful of being left, so she took him into her bed where he lay awake for ages, not the tormenting little devil of earlier in the day, but a tense and terrified child.
‘You’ll be all right now, George,’ she soothed him. ‘You’ve had a bad dream, that’s all.’
‘He was in the sea, and he was stretching his arms out and trying to shout, and the sea kept going into his mouth,’ George wept, working himself up to hysteria again.
‘You’re all right, you’re safe,’ Lynn said, trying to calm him. ‘Who was in the sea?’
‘My dad!’
‘Sh, sh, sh! You’ll wake the others. What was he trying to shout, George?’
‘ “Help me! Help me!” – and he was pulling me down with him under the waves, and the fish were eating us!’ he sobbed.
‘We eat the fish, George. They don’t eat us,’ Lynn said. ‘It was just a bad dream, that’s all. It wasn’t real.’
‘He’s dead,’ George said. ‘We’ll never see him again – except in dreams.’
*
‘There’s been a lot of laughter. They’ve laughed themselves sore and it didn’t stop till nearly midnight,’ Lynn said, when she took the boys back on Sunday evening. The culprits ran giggling upstairs, to avoid a telling off.
‘George had the most awful nightmare, or I wouldn’t have brought them back so soon,’ Lynn continued, following Margaret into the kitchen. ‘He had us all awake – even Simon, and he usually sleeps like a log. I couldn’t comfort him. He was so upset I took him into my bed and he cuddled up to me with the bedside light on. He didn’t want to be in the dark.’
‘He don’t like the dark, our George,’ young Jim called, from the living room.
‘What was he dreaming about?’ Margaret asked.
‘His dad – drowning, and then he cried himself to sleep.’
‘I don’t know what brought that on. Maybe something somebody’s said at school.’
‘I don’t know, but in the morning Simon asked him about it and – God love him – he said: “I’m not going to tell you about my dream, Simon, because I don’t want it to get into your mind.” I was amazed how wise a six-year-old can be, and how good.’
‘Oh, aye, he’s got his tender side, our Georgie,’ Margaret said. ‘Don’t get upset, Lynn. Drink your tea.’
Lynn held the cup to her lips, inhaling the steam. When she’d recovered enough to speak she said: ‘The Memorial Service is on Friday, isn’t it? Are you keeping the lads off school?’
‘No, we’re not going. We’ve never been to Trinity Church in our lives, so why start now?’
‘Well, to remember them; say a few prayers, comfort the living, I expect,’ Lynn floundered.
‘I don’t need a memorial service to remember Jim, and I’m not likely to get any comfort from it,’ Margaret said.
Since her miscarriage Margaret had never mentioned Jim – not to Lynn, at least. She was well used to being without a husband for weeks at a time, and was coping with day to day living as well as she always had, as if she barely realised what had happened. Maybe she reckoned that going to the Memorial Service would be bad luck, Lynn thought.
‘He did exist, you know, Mam,’ young Jim called.
‘I’m well aware of that. Maybe he exists still,’ she answered, calmly.
Lynn looked into her sister’s eyes, and the penny dropped. Margaret had not given up on Jim. In spite of everything, she seemed to be hanging on to the belief that he would walk through that door on
e day, drop his sea bag, and take her upstairs to their sweet, clean, freshly changed bed – as he’d done every three weeks since the day they were married. Then they would carry on as if this catastrophe in their lives had been nothing but a bad dream – as if nothing that had happened to her since that missed trip to London had been real. For Margaret, going to a Memorial Service might mean giving up that hope and abandoning Jim to his watery grave for ever.
But he’s never coming back, love, Lynn thought. Never, never, never! She buried her face in her tea cup, the steam adding moisture to tears she wanted to hide.
‘I’m going, anyhow, even if nobody else from this family is,’ young Jim muttered.
‘I’ll take you,’ Lynn managed to choke the words out.
‘You don’t have to go if you don’t want to, Auntie Lynn. I’m a big lad now. I can go on my own.’
‘You can take me, then,’ she said.
Chapter 48
‘You’re blooming!’ Lynn smiled, when a bright-eyed Brenda answered the door the following morning, glossy-haired and glowing. Pregnancy obviously suited her.
‘Five months now,’ Brenda smiled. ‘It’s a long time since I saw you. Come in. I thought you’d forgotten where we live.’
‘You’re never in, more like,’ Lynn said, neatly shifting the blame.
‘Oh. Well, I go to my mother’s most days.’
‘I thought as much. Anyway, I got a postcard this morning. I thought it was from Graham – he’s skiing in Austria, in case you didn’t know. I thought: Oh, I’ve not been forgotten after all. But it wasn’t from Graham, it was from my mam, postmarked Spain, of all places!’
Lynn took the card out of her pocket, and handed it over, with its scrawled message: I’m all right. Don’t worry about me. Hope everything’s ok in Cott. Love, Mam. ‘Not a clue as to how long she’s going to be in Spain, or where we can find her when she gets back!’ Lynn added.
‘She sent us one as well, except it says: Tell our Anthony I’m all right. No address on that, either.’
‘And have you – told him?’
The Would-Be Wife Page 24
