I spoke over the music. ‘Your note?’
‘I …’ he started. ‘I’m s-sorry. I didn’t mean to c-cause you alarm.’
I grabbed an upholstered chair from the fireside and dragged it to the piano stool. I sat down beside my brother. Sebastian is nearly five years my junior; when I turned twelve he was seven-and-a-half. At about that age his shyness and stuttering amounted to a pervasive twitchiness which was resistant to everything excepting my influence. When confronted by visitors to the house, Father’s business associates, the Wiltshire branch of the family, anybody unfamiliar, Sebastian would immediately fidget himself beyond speech. Father construed this as rudeness: admonishment inevitably followed the spoiled visit. I discovered that if I stood behind Sebastian and held him still, a hand on each birdlike shoulder, thumbs pressed either side of his whipcord backbone, and whispered assurances, I could keep whatever it was that possessed my brother at bay. Little by little, Sebastian became more self-assured. The thumbs became unnecessary first, then the hands, finally the whispering; it was enough for me to stand close by to help Sebastian keep hold of himself. Music had a similarly calming influence; Sebastian gained in confidence through listening, more so when he learnt to play for himself. Now our conversation was underscored by the same rambling notes I’d heard on the way upstairs.
‘What’s happened? You wouldn’t have written unless you had cause.’
‘I was hasty. It-it’s nothing.’
‘Come on now. Tell me what’s wrong.’
‘Your hair is wet.’
‘I enjoyed the stroll. Rain is no more than rain.’
Sebastian’s fingers swam lightly towards the higher notes.
‘What’s wrong? Is it Father? John?’
The music ran uninterrupted for a moment. Then Sebastian said, ‘Yes. John and Father and work. The problem attaches to Bright & Co. A business matter.’
I kept my voice flat. ‘You want my help with a business problem.’
The piano was very quiet, high notes straddling empty pauses.
‘We have some concerns just now, that’s right,’ Sebastian said. ‘A d-debt or six going bad. The French war is to blame; everybody’s affected, the longer the thing d-drags on … every end a false horizon. We failed to win the Adams contract. And, to top that, hopes are f-fading for the Penny-Ann. She will be the third ship we’ve backed this year and l-lost.’
‘But the last time I was here John was saying he was confident of the Adams business.’
‘After dancing with the b-bear,’ Sebastian blinked. ‘I remember. But he was wrong. We lost out.’ Sebastian struck a high chord a little harder and went on. ‘John took it badly.’
I could not help feeling half-pleased with this news; though I pretend otherwise, John’s easy rapport with Father inspires jealousy in me. He would be appearing less perfect to the old man now.
‘John has become too f-familiar with the bottle,’ Sebastian went on. ‘It makes him erratic. When Adams declined our offer, John took hold of him by the lapels and laid him across one of the n-nails, in broad daylight, before one and all. He had to be dragged off.’
Although this was shocking news, I knew it still wasn’t the point. Sebastian went on.
‘F-father was livid. He set upon John outside the counting house, berated him before the men. But he knows the failed deal is the least of our real concerns. The r-rest of the business is foundering. We’ve inadequate protection to weather this storm. Father’s denying there’s anything to worry about in the long term, but it’s not true, not true.’
‘And you tell me all this because?’
‘B-because?’ Sebastian caught my eye for a moment. ‘Because I thought you would want to know.’
All was not quite right here. I could sense Sebastian holding something back. The pale skin across his forehead appeared taut with some deeper concern. He doesn’t care about business. His jagged movements and speech betokened a more personal collapse.
‘I could talk to John, or Father, if you think it would help?’ I suggested.
Sebastian’s fingers shivered over the keys before finding another chord.
‘N-no. It’s not that. It’s …’ He shook his head as if trying to free an idea.
I bent close to Sebastian and in so doing saw the fine layer of dust covering the lid of the pianoforte. A realisation slid into place, clicking home like a well-oiled gun barrel snapping shut. ‘Is this about the Dock Company, Sebastian? The investigation I mentioned. My work?’
Beyond the dust-field stood a window through which I glimpsed the heavy moving sky.
‘W-what? No.’
I smiled, still certain I was on to something. ‘Good, because that has all fizzled out. It is not a thing anyone needs to worry about now.’
Sebastian’s fingers pressed down on the keys, cutting off what sounded like the beginnings of a groan with another chord. He overcame the tremor-blinking by closing his eyes and leaving them shut.
‘Sebastian? What is it? I’m saying Carthy and Co., the Dock Company, too, has no interest in pursuing unpaid duties. Not now at least.’
I stood up and moved behind the piano stool, took hold of my brother’s shoulders, a knot of shivering in each hand. I pressed a thumb either side of the ridge of his backbone. He hung his head and played another, gentler, chord.
‘I’m glad if that’s the case,’ he said.
Twenty-six
The ship had moved. It no longer stood beneath the Merchant Venturer’s crane. A new vessel now occupied that berth; smaller than the Belsize, it appeared to be cowering beneath the crane, which looked to me like a riding crop raised in threat above the ship’s deck. I took off my hat and scratched my head through matted hair. The barber’s, the barber’s; I would get there yet. It had stopped raining but the sky, hanging hard over the quay and dock, seemed to press the stench of the place upon me. Rot and excrement pulsed damp on all sides
I walked along the Welsh Back in search of the Belsize. In this light all natural colour was tainted grey. Even the caged canaries for sale up by Bristol Bridge were a jaundiced yellow. The girl selling them caught my eye; she gave me a stained smile and planted a hand upon her hip as I sidestepped her cart.
‘Have a little look,’ she said. ‘Just a peek.’
I shook my head and moved on, but the woman stepped into my path, stretched out her back, and pointed to the canaries and goldfinches in their cage. ‘A friend in troubled times, a birdie is.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘They’re no bother at all.’
‘No doubt, but I’m not interested.’
‘They live on thin air and a few seeds and sing something lovely every day. This one here has a marvellous tune in him. Like an angel.’
The woman bent forward to point out the bird, the plumpness of her neck rolling into a double chin.
‘I’m afraid I have no space for a songbird just now.’
‘They don’t need no space! Just a spot for a cage.’
‘I don’t have a cage.’
‘But I have one for you!’ the woman said triumphantly, throwing back a cloth from her barrow’s lower tray to reveal a jumble of woven wicker cylinders, each no bigger than a loaf of bread. ‘No more excuses; I can see from your face you need cheering up, and a bird is just the thing.’
‘I don’t need cheering! And, no offence, but even if I did, I’m not sure a bird would have the power to help.’
‘Nonsense!’ the woman laughed, her face flushing as she sensed incipient success. She danced around her cart, pulling a cage from the lower tier, releasing the door of the bigger one on the top shelf, and thrusting her hand in amongst flurrying wings. Her cheek, pressed against the bars of the cage, squashed ripe. ‘If it’s not you that needs a friend, surely you’ll give it to somebody else. They make a very amusing little present.’
People were jostling by on either side of this conversation. The woman, all elbows and plump fingers, already had the canary tight in her first. She thr
ust the tiny bird head first into the box, where it scrabbled and fluttered in panic. I thought of Anne. A present for her would somehow help things between me and Carthy. I reached into my coat pocket for my purse and dug in it for the right coins.
When I looked up again a thickset Negro was skirting us with purposeful strides. Although the man had his head down against the weather, I recognised him immediately as the sailor who had helped me in my quayside confrontation, the day the Belsize docked. The woman had stuffed the miniature birdcage under my arm and was picking pennies from my palm. Her fingernails were filthy. I let the coins go. Then I followed the man off the bridge and into the Welsh Back. The sailor had a rolling, heavy-shouldered walk: I noticed how others on the quay stepped aside, like sheep splitting before a dog, or so much water parting around the hull of a ship. At King Street the sailor turned right and made his way straight to the door of a tumbledown inn, the Llandroger Trow.
I entered a few paces behind him.
Twenty-seven
In honour of the low grey day outside, the inn’s table lamps were aglow. A fire also licked at itself in the grate. Perhaps as a result of these generous touches, or simply because the inn stood so near the centre of things, the place was busy despite it being as yet mid-afternoon. As well as groups of merchants and sailors scattered around the tables, a clutch of men stood before the bar. I saw muddy breeches, a pair of split-heeled boots, and a sleeve hanging ripped like a broken wing. Labourers, freed early from a job. From the sounds of their raised voices they had been here a while.
The sailor had to make his way through their midst to reach the bar. Yet before he’d even uttered his first ‘pardon me’, the atmosphere in the room shifted; whereas in the street outside the Negro’s size had given him a right of way, in here it drew unwanted attention. Being big makes you a milestone by which smaller – and, often, drunken – men are compelled to navigate. The broken heels belonged to a wiry fellow who wore a short beard; as the sailor attempted to sidestep him this man planted his feet wide. The blackamoor checked and tried to slide the other way, but found his route barred. The man with the shot boots stiffened like a terrier.
‘I fucking hate it when weight gets thrown around,’ he said.
The black sailor took a step backwards. I found myself right behind his shoulder. I recognised, in the way the sailor dropped his head and took an inch from his height at the knees, his attempt to defuse himself. It didn’t work. The terrier man had his chin up, beard bristling like kicked embers.
‘An apology will do it,’ he said, his eyes weaving back to his friends.
The sailor’s silence was at once resigned and challenging. His back straightened. The inch he reclaimed in height seemed more like six in breadth. The workman, meanwhile, transferred his tankard clumsily from his left hand to his right. I saw the man’s grip tighten on the handle. Without a doubt, he was about to swing it, contents and all, at the sailor. I stepped quickly to the Negro’s side and threw my free arm around his shoulders.
‘There you are!’ I said.
The sailor flinched, glanced sideways, then stood firm.
‘Out of the way, friends!’ I slurred. I drew myself up, bird-basket tucked rakishly under an armpit, and felt the Negro’s shoulders shift uncertainly beneath my hand. ‘This man owes me a drink. I must wring it from him at this bar! Ha!’ Gripping a chunk of the sailor’s coat, I surged forwards, pulling him with me. The terrier had no option but to step aside before the advancing wall we made. The clutch of fellows behind him likewise gave way. ‘Cider for two,’ I growled at the publican as we thumped into the bar. I then spun around, swaying mock-drunkenly, grin in place, to fend off retaliation from the rear. None came. The labourers had turned away. They were laughing. At what, I couldn’t see, but I supposed it might be their thwarted mate. In drink, aggression and humiliation are especially closely linked. Once the sailor had gathered up our tankards I steered him to an alcove, screened from the throng by the pub’s centrepiece, an inglenook chimney breast.
‘Thank you,’ the sailor said, sliding my drink towards me. ‘One apiece.’
‘You remember?’
‘Yes, I do. Though I’d say I saved you from a greater harm than you did me. That fellow there –’ he nodded beyond the fire ‘– would have gone down before a stiff wind. Your adversary, the shrewish stallholder, was tough as a Turk by comparison.’
‘I don’t doubt you had the situation in hand, but still.’
The Negro shrugged, his shoulders threatening the seams of his coat. He drew on his cider and winced and wiped his lips, muttering, ‘I should have held out for rum.’ Then he looked up at me and smiled. There was an appealing frankness in his countenance, and the deep calm I had sensed in him last time we met appeared bottomless yet.
‘You sailed on the Belsize, didn’t you?’ I asked.
‘I did.’
‘I saw you board her after you helped me on the quay.’
‘Joseph Blue,’ said the man, holding out his hand. I took it. Though I squeezed firmly, my palm felt soft against the sailor’s calluses. ‘But nobody uses the Joseph part.’
‘Blue,’ I repeated. Then I introduced myself, continuing, ‘It’s no coincidence that I came in here after you today. I saw you pass me in the street. I recognised you. I have an interest in your old ship. I followed you off the bridge and through these doors hoping to talk to you about her.’
I saw … or suspected I saw … a cloud pass over Blue’s face. His eyes narrowed, shadows beneath them turning purple. I gritted my teeth. I’d misjudged the man, should have been more circumspect, not blurted out my purpose straight. His frown of concern deepened as he scrutinised me. ‘Why are you carrying a bird box?’ he said at last.
‘Oh! This.’ I set the wicker case down on the table between us. ‘It’s a gift.’
‘You bought me –’
‘No, no, no. My master’s daughter. It’s for her.’
Blue took another swig from his mug. ‘A funny way to advance yourself. It wouldn’t have worked with the Captain.’
‘I’ve met your Captain Addison. I found him forthcoming. Eager to assist.’
‘Did you, now?’
‘In truth, I did.’
‘Well, you’re a luckier man than most. Those of us who sailed beneath him did all the assisting as was needed on board. Still, no seafaring man is the same creature on land as he is afloat.’
‘But we were afloat. He gave me a guided tour of the ship.’
‘In which case, he must have had his reasons. The owners leaned on him, I imagine. Back in port, he’s no longer in charge, is he? Anyway, tied to the quay, you weren’t exactly with the man at sea.’
‘No.’
‘And in any case, Addison finds the journey from ship to shore harder than most.’ Blue shook his head. ‘If you’ve only met the Captain since we put into port, you haven’t really met him. Landfall has wrought a pitiful change upon the man.’
‘In what way?’ I asked.
‘He’s lost his bearings. The last time I saw him, I had to help him to his lodgings.’
I considered my cider. Its surface blinked at me when tipped towards the lamplight, but still I could not see the bottom of the tankard. Blue, draining his drink, now stood up abruptly. For a moment I suspected he was about to leave, but he merely went to fetch another round. The relief I felt upon his return made me realise how much I wanted the man’s help. From its tiny cage on the tabletop, the songbird’s chirruping was briefly audible.
‘What’s your interest in the Belsize?’ Blue asked as he sat down.
I shifted forwards on my stool. ‘I’m not exactly sure. It’s probably nothing more than clerical. I’m charged with chasing up dock duties, import fees and so on. Not just on this ship. I was hoping to find out a little more about what she was carrying.’
Blue leaned forwards, too. Close up, I noticed his chin was flecked with stubble, some of it grey, and that two deep lines scored each cheek. The man’s foreignn
ess, and agelessness, suddenly struck home. On what basis was I hoping for his help? Yet I was, and my optimism pre-dated the warmth in my veins attributable to drink.
‘Captain Addison gave up the ship’s log, but I’m not sure it tells the whole story.’
‘No, you’d need more than sight of that to tell exactly what we dragged back from the Indies. You should have pressed the Captain himself. I’ve no idea what was in the hold, I’m afraid. My responsibilities lay above deck.’
‘I see.’ I sat back. Although I knew next to nothing of this man, there was something steady in his eyes, and in the way he held himself, something … contained. True to his word, he had returned with a round not of cider but rum. I took a mouthful and held it, teeth gritted, until the roof of my mouth was aglow, the back of my tongue numb.
‘No,’ Blue went on. ‘You’ve got the wrong idea if you assume deck hands such as me would have known the ins and outs of what she was carrying. Even the purser would have been pushed to give you an inventory off the top of his head.’
‘I suppose so. And yet,’ I went on, ‘an inventory isn’t quite what I’m after. More a sense of whether there was some thing unusual about the ship’s cargo. Something noteworthy, which the books might not reveal.’
The sailor’s nod of confidence appeared a little magnified. Inside its wicker jail, the canary had taken a break from its piping lament. The immediate effects of a shot of rum, I considered, were not a million miles distant from strong coffee, taken very hot. Bite and optimism. The pub seemed to grow very quiet in the pause before Blue spoke.
‘Ah, I see which way you’re headed. But I’m not sure there’s the wind to get you there. Waring is your man. The ship’s surgeon. He was the only fellow – the Captain aside – with a stake in the ship. Interfering bugger, too. If there was anything of special value on board, he’d know about it. Whether he’d share the specifics with you is another matter, though.’
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