‘Eve, I’ve been waiting for you,’ he said, holding out his hand.
She went to stand beside him, her shoulder just touching his.
‘Bob,’ she said, ‘Piotr was in Shenkursk and he saw them all. They’re all right. Nikolai is alive.’
She felt his arm heavy on her shoulders and knew that he had been as anxious as she. After a while, he moved a little away from her so that he could see her face. For a moment he said nothing, just watched her; she looked fearlessly back at him. In the end he spoke:
‘I never thought I’d see you look so happy.’
‘Isn’t it peculiar? Before all this, John, the War, the Revolution, losing Sasha, Nikolai, Piotr, the letter – everything – when I should have been happy I was not, and now when there are still so many reasons to be worried and miserable, I seem to thrum with happiness.’
He laughed out loud and reached to hold her close to him again. Into her hair, he said:
‘What an incredible word, Eve. What does it mean – “thrum”?’
She smiled a little too.
‘I don’t know. I’ve always supposed it meant to vibrate and hum slightly – like the string of a cello or something. Anyway, be intensely moved – but nicely and quietly – by something marvellous.’
‘Well if that’s what it means. Eve, then I am thrumming too.’
‘Truly?’
He let her go suddenly, and for an instant she was paralysed with her old fear that the happiness was an illusion, but she was able to move again when he said:
‘Brace yourself, my love, I’ve got to put her about. Get ready with the jib – and keep out of the way of the boom.’
The big yacht heeled over gracefully and passed within only a few feet of a small hill of ice so far from the rest in the White Sea that it must have calved from some glacier in the Arctic. Evelyn watched it drift safely to the stern of them and said musingly:
‘It should really be called “Floating Icebergs” shouldn’t it, not “Floating Islands” – the pudding, I mean. It looks just like that.’
For some reason that absurdity, the triviality of her vision, set the seal on his delight. In the middle of revolution and war they had discovered that they loved each other and were now picking their way through a sea of emotion as full of disastrous obstacles as this one; they faced goodness-knew what problems when they reached England, if they ever did reach it, with a Bolshevik escaped prisoner; yet she was sure enough of herself to enjoy for a while such a trifle. He would never have been able to explain it to anyone who had not lived with them through the whole terrible time, but it was with real fervour that he said through his clenched teeth:
‘Eve, I love you so much.’
She leaned against him, thoughts of all kinds rushing through her mind: happy most of them; others bearable. She no longer pined for the reassurance that he would never leave her. For once it was enough that they were there together. Nikolai was safe for the moment. They had not managed to save Sasha, but they had brought Piotr away from almost certain death. And now they were sailing in the light of the low, red-gold sun, on their way home.
‘Look Bob, the sun – it’s sinking.’
She stood with his arm around her and watched the sun lower itself down behind the horizon, leaving a smaller and smaller segment, so vivid and brilliant that it looked as though the brightness might spill out of the circumference that bounded it. At last it sank below the horizon, but its warm, red glow still lit up the sky and was reflected back by the thick white clouds that hung above the yacht.
Evelyn felt a tremendous exultation flood through her, and said vaguely:
‘It’s almost like a promise, isn’t it?’
Bob did not answer, and she was so surprised that she turned to look up at his face. She could see that his mind was no longer in tune with hers.
‘What is it, Bob?’ The urgency of her voice got through his preoccupation. He looked down at her.
‘Look over there, at those low clouds. That’s rain there. Damn.’
She followed his finger and saw in the distance a pewter-coloured shadow that joined the sea to the massed clouds that seemed to be spreading fast throughout the sky, and even beginning to hide the comforting red glow of the sinking sun. It was a most curious sight and it seemed frighteningly sinister.
‘Fetch my oilskin, will you, Eve?’
‘Of course.’ She turned down the companionway, trying not to wake any of the three Suvarovs, and grabbed the first two oilskin coats and sou’westers she could lay her hands on. When Bob saw that she had two of each, he said roughly:
‘No. Get below, Eve. We must go through it if we’re to reach the first anchorage, and there’s nowhere between that and us where we could safely lie-a-hull. But I want you out of the way.’
‘Don’t make me go, Bob. Please. And you’re bound to need help with something. Let me stay.’
‘All right,’ he said after a while. ‘But you’ll get damn wet. God, here it comes.’
It was like plunging into a tremendous wall of spiking water. The rain beat down on their exposed hands and faces, almost as sharply as needles; and with it came the wind, hitting them hard, and sending the yacht bucketing through the waves. Evelyn, cowering on one of the benches at the side of the cockpit, wishing that she had not insisted on staying with him, stared across at Bob, hoping that he would not look as frightened as she felt.
He turned for an instant, as though he could feel her scrutiny. To her astonishment, she could see that his eyes were alight with excitement, and, although he had his tongue clamped between his teeth, there was a triumphant smile on his lips. He must have seen her fear, for he turned his eyes away from the compass for just long enough to bawl through the cacophony of wind and thrashing, slapping water:
‘Afraid, Eve?’
Not trusting her voice, she nodded her ugly sou’wester at him. He laughed, a joyous sound that reached her in spite of the racket.
‘Don’t be. You’ll get used to it. And I’m here.’
She shuffled along the bench, which was already awash with seawater, until she was near enough to touch him. He braced himself against the swell, took one hand off the wheel and gripped hers. They were both wet and cold, but there was such strength in his hand that for a moment all her fears died, and she really believed that they would reach Bergen alive.
It took them another two hours of battling with the wind and the water before Bob was able to turn the yacht into the tiny, but completely sheltered, cove where he had planned their first stop. Then, almost beyond tiredness, they dropped the anchor and turned to struggle with the wet and stiffening sails. The mounds of canvas were horribly heavy and seemed to Evelyn to be the most unyielding material she had ever touched. But at last all the ties were secured and the sails safely stowed, and the two of them could go below.
So worn out was Evelyn that when she fell into the bunk that had just been vacated by Dindin, she could not stay awake long enough to say anything to any of them. The words were just beginning to form in her mind when sleep rolled over her like some immense cottonwool blanket. Bob kept control of his conscious mind a little longer and explained to Dindin what had happened, where they were, what she and Tallie could do to help while he and Evelyn slept, and when he wanted to be woken. And then he too slept.
Dindin woke him five hours later and he went up on deck as quietly as possible, hoping that Evelyn would sleep on, so that she would be in a fit state to take the wheel from him later. The rain had poured itself out and although thick clouds still covered the sky, they were white and innocent again. With Dindin’s help, Bob raised the anchor and the sails and they sailed on past the dull, rocky shore.
There were no trees to be seen and the only green anywhere was the thick moss that seemed to pour in rivulets down the crevices of the rocks. Every so often they passed a temporary-looking settlement of Laplanders, and Tallie would wave at the curiously dressed people who emerged from their houses to watch the big yacht slip b
y. Once a group of children waved back and Tallie’s face lit up with pleasure.
For most of the time she was dreadfully bored; too small and light to be able to help with any of the jobs involved on deck, and banished to the cabin whenever there was more than the slightest swell, she spent most of her time sitting and watching her brother. But he slept for hours at a time and even when he woke could not really talk to her and did not want the drinks of water or tinned milk that she wanted to fetch for him.
Evelyn woke at last, to see Natalie carefully wiping Piotr’s face and murmuring to him all the endearments she could remember hearing from her mother. There was a sad smile on his thin face as he submitted to her care and for a few moments Evelyn simply watched them. Then she remembered her obligations, flung back the quilt that covered her and staggered out of the bunk. Tallie looked round.
‘Has the storm really stopped, then?’ asked Evelyn, her voice a little thick and unsteady.
‘Yes. Uncle Bob and Dindin are up there now. But they didn’t want me to get in the way, so…’
‘So, you came to look after Piotr. You’re a good girl, Tallie, and it’s such a help to know that he’s in safe hands.’
The child smiled more happily and turned back to her patient. Piotr smiled over her head to Evelyn.
‘All right, Piotr? Can I do anything for you?’
He shook his dark head against the rough pillow and she left them together.
Later in the day she took over from Bob while he went below again to sleep and she grew in confidence with every hour of good weather, letting her hands relax on the wheel and ceasing to fight the swell. As she learned to sway with the deck, keeping an eye on the compass and altering course a little first one way and then the other, she came to feel almost happy, and relinquished the wheel reluctantly when he came up again to relieve her.
While the weather held they fell into a routine of four hours on and four off. Dindin took charge of the tiny galley, producing hot food whenever she could, but more often handing up a plate of hard, dry bread and sausage to whoever was at the wheel. She learned how to keep the kettle only half full so that she could hold it over the rudimentary paraffin stove and produce hot tea in all but the roughest weather.
Then, six days out from Archangel, they reached the rocky, fissured coast of the North Cape of Norway and the weather changed. Evelyn was in command when the wind suddenly veered and she had to fight to keep the wheel from wrenching itself out of her grasp. With larger and larger walls of green water rearing up behind her, threatening to crash down on the deck and overwhelm them all, Evelyn yelled:
‘Dindin! Wake Bob.’
He came scrambling up on deck, took one look at the sea and called out:
‘Stick with it, Eve. I must reef.’
Looking behind her every few seconds at the towering waves, she gritted her teeth and clung on to the wheel as he clawed down the folds of heavy canvas until the sails were reduced to small triangles. The effect on the steering was immediate and Evelyn leaned forward against the wheel to catch her breath. When he had made the sails fast to the boom, he inched his way forward and touched her white face.
‘Can you cope for a bit longer, Eve?’
She gulped, nodded, and then said:
‘But what about the sea? Look.’ He looked back at the waves and then down again into her face.
‘Yes, but she’s managing, Eve. Look, hang on. I must check the tides and channels.’
He went below to consult the charts he had collected in Archangel, calculated a new course and then went to relieve Evelyn, slipping on the steps of the companionway as the yacht turned momentarily into the wind, and rapping his chin most painfully on the top step.
That was a bad beginning to a terrifying forty-eight hours, by the end of which all three of them had bangs and bruises and grazes from the falls they had taken both on and below decks. Dindin had been vilely sick and was completely exhausted, Tallie had succumbed to her own peculiar burden of terror, frustration and boredom in a screaming fit, and Piotr seemed iller and paler than ever. By the time they limped into Hammerfest, the northernmost town in the whole world, Evelyn would almost have preferred to drown than sail another yard.
Bob, fighting his own weakness and appalling doubts about the whole expedition, decreed that they should spend at least three days in the port, recuperating, restocking the boat with food and water and, if possible, finding a doctor who spoke a language that one or other of them knew to look at Piotr.
They achieved all his aims and on Thursday 29 August sailed out of Hammerfest on their way to Tromsö. They were past the most dangerous stage of their voyage and from Tromsö onwards planned to call in at real ports every few days. The isolation of the country between Murmansk and Hammerfest had been one of the most frightening of Bob’s anxieties and that at least was over. Navigation would be difficult as they threaded their way through the islands off Narvik, but at least they were within relatively easy reach of civilisation – and a seagoing civilisation at that – for the rest of their journey.
Nineteen days out of Hammerfest, exhausted, bruised, their eyes burning from the salt spray, with their hands cut and blistered from the ropes; cold, damp and very hungry, they brought their ship into Bergen at last. As Dindin helped Bob moor her and they all waited for the harbour-master to complete his formalities, Evelyn felt the beginnings of an immense contentment.
Bob, turning from his task of checking the last fender, saw her face and understood that she was at peace at last. He slipped into a seat between her and Tallie, and whispered into Evelyn’s ear:
‘Now all we’ve got to do is to decide whether to get married here or wait until we get you back to Yorkshire.’
Tired though she was, Evelyn put back her head and burst out laughing. He realised that it was the first time he had ever seen her laugh.
‘Let’s do it here,’ she said. ‘And then there’ll be no fuss.’
Author’s Note
The Author would like to thank the Trustees of the Imperial War Museum for allowing her to consult document collections in their charge, particularly the diaries of Major E. M. Allfrey and Commander T. St. V. Tyler RN; which describe the events in Archangel in 1919, and the diary of L. C. Pocock, which gives a graphic eyewitness account of the February Revolution.
Other, published, eyewitness accounts that give vivid pictures of the events that form the background to this novel are: Claude Anet’s Through the Russian Revolution (Hutchinson, 1917), Rhoda Power’s Under Cossack and Bolshevik (Methuen; 1919), R. H. B. Lockhart’s Memoirs of a British Agent (Putnam, 1932), Ariadna Tyrkova-Williams’s From Liberty to Brest-Litovsk: The First Year of The Russian Revolution (Macmillan, 1919), and Edmund Ironside’s Archangel 1918–1919 (Constable, 1953).
Apart from the historical facts of the two revolutions in Russia in 1917 and the subsequent intervention at Archangel, all the incidents in this book are figments of the author’s imagination, as are all the characters, who bear no relation to any real people, living or dead.
Copyright
First published in 1989 by Michael Joseph
This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world
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ISBN 978-1-4472-3903-1 EPUB
ISBN 978-1-4472-3902-4 POD
Copyright © Daphne Wright, 1989
The right of Daphne Wright to be identified as the
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