Storms Gather Between Us

by Storms Gather Between Us (retail) (epub)

  ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he said. ‘More lovely than anything I have ever seen. More beautiful than the night sky. You shimmer like the stars.’

  Instead of laughing at his unprecedented and uncharacteristic poetic outpouring, Rafqa silenced him with her lips, drawing him into a honeyed kiss that was tender and moving.

  Looking back now, he knew it was the terrible magic woven by the drugs, but then, caught in the sensual music of the moment, he had believed it almost divine, spiritual, holy.

  He spent he knew not how long, running his fingertips over every inch of her, then lay back as she did the same to him, until it seemed that he no longer inhabited his own body but had moved outside it into another dimension where everything happened more slowly and intensely. He wanted to stay there forever, inside that room on that Persian rug with Rafqa.

  Then they made love. Slowly. Tenderly. All the pleasure he had experienced hitherto, the many women he had enjoyed, paled in comparison with what he and Rafqa were doing. Every sexual experience he had had before now – even with Rafqa – had been just that: having sex, mostly pleasurable, rarely emotional, and never before like this.

  After the long, slow lovemaking, they had talked. He had told the Lebanese woman more than he wished he had.

  ‘Tell me, Will. Where have you left your heart?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ His voice harsh, nervy.

  ‘You have taken your heart out and locked it away where no one can find it.’ Her eyes were full of sadness. ‘Not even me. Not even now, when everything says that you are opening it to me. But you and I know you are not.’

  ‘I love you, Rafqa,’ he said at last, cupping her chin in his hands and locking his eyes onto hers.

  ‘Do you really, Will?’ Her voice was doubtful.

  He pulled her into his arms again and fastened his mouth upon hers. Then they didn’t talk any more until morning.

  It had been like no other night. At the time, to Will it had been deeply meaningful.

  But it wasn’t meaningful.

  Now, in the cold light of day, on the high seas, Will knew his mind and body had deceived him. His feelings for Rafqa were affectionate, sometimes passionate, but never meaningful in that way. He decided then and there, lying in his bunk, listening to the symphony of snoring around him, that he would never again take narcotics. Never again would he risk forgoing control, allowing another part of himself – for he could not deny that it was indeed a deeply buried part of himself – to come to the fore.

  Will shivered in spite of the heat of the night, still ashamed. The Christina was shadowing the coast and it was a close atmosphere, heavy, thick, hard to breathe. In those few hashish-heavy hours he had indeed believed he loved Rafqa, God forgive him. But their tragedy was that once the drugs washed away, he felt nothing, only the kind of attraction any man would feel for a woman such as she.

  Now he knew he should have admitted to Rafqa that loving her was impossible. Loving anyone was impossible. He had realised that, the moment he knew that Elizabeth, his beloved Lizzie, would never love him back. Rafqa was right: he no longer had a heart. Elizabeth had torn it out of him and thrown it away.

  Acknowledging that sleep was not going to come, he made his way up to the deck, where he stood in the dark, leaning on the port-side rail, watching the dark mass that was the coast of Africa slipping past in the far distance. While less muggy up here on deck, there was little breeze. They were travelling at around eight knots and as he looked towards the bows, he could just make out the pale pinpricks of lights that were Mombasa. The Christina wasn’t stopping there, but steaming straight for Aden and beyond to the Suez Canal and into the Mediterranean. Will had liked what he’d seen of Africa so far, and was sorry that the short back-and-forth hops up and down this coast had now come to an end. Palmer was right. He had to make some choices. If he was to stay in the merchant navy, he had to think about making a proper go of it. Despite the unfairness of today’s punishment of Tornabene, Will respected Palmer. He was the best skipper he’d served under – and there had been a lot of them. If he wanted another stint on the Christina he had better work his way back into the master’s good books.

  What choice did he have? He couldn’t go back to Australia. There was nothing there for him. His family were dead. The scruffy excuse for a homestead that was Wilton’s Creek had doubtless been sold after his father’s execution. Sold to pay off the accumulated debts of Jack Kidd’s failed coal-mining business. And Elizabeth. He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing her again. Of knowing that she was probably married to Michael Winterbourne now. If Jake Cassidy was telling the truth, Harriet’s suicide would have removed the last obstacle for them.

  Poor Hattie. They’d been so close when they were small, but they had been separated after the death of their mother when Harriet was sent into town to live with the local schoolmistress. The separation pushed them apart, until in the end they had nothing in common and had become like strangers. But for her to be dead – and at her own hand – shocked him deeply. And not knowing for ten years. Hattie had always made bad choices. She’d messed things up more than he had. Maybe all the Kidds were cursed. Every one of them had died prematurely and violently.

  If Will were to avoid that curse himself he’d better start to change things. If, some day, he was going to return to a life on the land it would have to be somewhere other than Australia – America maybe. Since the Depression and Prohibition ended, things were looking up there. But to make a success of a new beginning he’d need some solid cash behind him. That would mean cutting back on his spending, saving his wages and studying for his mate’s ticket.

  When both Rafqa and the skipper had told him that he needed to make choices, to grow up, he hadn’t liked to hear it, but he knew they were right. Until now, he’d let life wash over him and carry him along passively, like a piece of flotsam swept along by the currents. From now on he would set his own course.

  * * *

  One day drifted into another as the ship made its slow, stately progress through the Indian Ocean.

  Will cursed his own stupidity, which meant he would be confined to ship during their planned stops at Aden, Jeddah and Port Said. Being stuck on board during a protracted stay in port was never pleasant. The land-based delights were visible and tangible, and being cooped up on a hot, airless ship was a trial. All the crew had to do it from time to time, but on a rota, and mostly with at least a couple of hours to go ashore to dispatch mail, buy essentials and drink a few beers. Denial of shore leave was a very effective punishment.

  Confinement, and guilt about Paolo made Will determined to keep his nose clean for the rest of this voyage. He wanted to avoid giving Cassidy any ammunition that would allow him to make good on the promise that Will would be thrown off the ship before they reached Liverpool.

  One morning, as they were moving through the Red Sea towards the Suez Canal, Cassidy appeared beside Will, who had just finished scraping rust off the guard rails at the stern, ready for re-painting. He enjoyed the meticulous nature of such tasks, allowing himself to concentrate on the work in hand and blot out everything else.

  ‘Call that done, Kidd?’ The bosun ran his fingers underneath the rail. ‘Feels bumpy. There’s more rust there.’

  ‘But I’m down to the next layer of paint. I’ve scraped all the rust off.’

  ‘There’s rust underneath the paint, so get that off too. I want it smooth as a baby’s bottom.’ He grinned. ‘But you wouldn’t know about babies’ bottoms would you? So let’s say a Lebanese tart’s arse.’

  Will was about to jump up and thump him, but a voice in his head told him to swallow his anger and let it go. He’d get his revenge on the bully one day but there was no point in risking incurring the captain’s wrath again. Cassidy, realising he was not going to get the satisfaction of a response, moved away, thrusting his hips in a parody of the sexual act as he went.

  The man was sick in the head. Yet Cassidy seemed to get along with the rest of the cre
w well enough. For a reason known only to Cassidy himself, it was just Will who was the target of his bullying and snide remarks.

  Will was counting the days until they arrived in Liverpool. Not because he wanted to be there – he didn’t – but because he’d heard that Cassidy planned to switch to the White Star Line with its regular runs to Australia.

  As long as Palmer would take him on again, Will only had to hang on a little while longer and he would be free of Cassidy for good. One thing was sure. He’d never sign on to another vessel that the bosun was sailing on.

  * * *

  When they docked in Naples, the sun was shining. It was late morning and there were two full holds to unload. The harbour was busy and all hands were needed to man the operation which took until after dusk. Captain Palmer had meetings with cargo aggregators and deals to be done to finalise the replenishment of the cargo for the onward leg. He advised a happy crew that shore leave would be until eight o’clock the following evening, with sailing soon after dawn the day after.

  Paolo’s face was a picture of misery. He hadn’t seen his family in more than a year and was heartbroken that he would be missing a rare opportunity to enjoy his mamma’s cooking and tell his extended family all about the places he’d visited, during what had only been his third year as a seaman. The fact that they were to be in port for so much time only made it worse – a prolonged torture.

  Will was deeply ashamed. ‘I’d give anything for you to be going ashore in my place today. What I did was unforgivable. You’re a better friend than I deserve. You should have let them leave me behind in Zanzibar.’

  Paolo looked up. ‘Non fa niente. There will be other times in the future when I can see la famiglia. It would be worse being on the ship without you, my friend.’

  ‘What can I do for you while I’m ashore? Would you like me to call on your family?’

  Paolo’s eyes lit up. ‘Would you? You don’t mind?’

  ‘Hell, mate, it’s the least I can do. I’m ready for your mother to give me a sock in the jaw.’

  ‘Madonna! You’re a brave man. I have some gifts that maybe you take to them? It will stop la mamma getting too angry with you.’

  Will shouldered the bag of gifts for Paolo’s family. It was packed to the brim. In his pockets he had letters for Paolo’s parents and each of his siblings and a hand-drawn map to show him the way. Evidently the Italian had passed all that time confined on board to better effect than Will had. But Will had no one to write letters to anyway.

  Stopping off in a marketplace to buy flowers for Signora Tornabene, Will made his way through the narrow crowded streets, dodging the numerous bicycles and carts and ducking to avoid the washing that hung from every window. Although it was after dark, it was still hot. Barefoot children were playing, faces dirty and clothes threadbare. Naples clearly had more than its share of poverty. Despite the evident deprivation, people were smiling and the children looked as carefree as any Will had seen on his travels. It struck him then that the same was true of much of Africa. People accepted what life flung at them and didn’t spend their time complaining or wishing for more.

  He had gone a short distance from the market, occasionally consulting the pencil-drawn directions Paolo had sketched for him, when he heard the noise of shouting – no, more like chanting. He turned a corner into a small piazza and came upon a crowd of black-shirted men, holding banners, some bearing the symbol of the Italian Fascist party – a bundle of wood with an axe – some carrying slogans which Will could not understand. They had raised arms and were shouting in chorus; the only words he could recognise were ‘Viva Il Duce’. The sight was a chilling one. While Will had no interest in politics, and largely ignored world affairs, the rise of Mussolini had not passed him by. Running across this group of Fascists was the first time he had ever encountered adherents of the dictator and he didn’t like what he saw. Shivering involuntarily, he doubled back the way he’d come and took a transverse street, giving the square a wide berth.

  The Tornabenes lived in a third-floor apartment in a building that was as rundown and shabby as its neighbours. Nervous, he knocked on the door. It opened and a small boy of about seven stared up at him. It was only then that it occurred to Will that he spoke no Italian and it was unlikely that the Tornabenes spoke English.

  The boy called something over his shoulder into the dark interior and after a couple of moments a stout lady wearing an apron appeared. She looked Will up and down and then evidently reassured by the canvas kitbag, seaboots and black bell bottoms, she swung the door wide open.

  ‘Entra! Devi essere un amico di Paolo.’ Signora Tornabene wiped her hands on her apron then extended one to Will, untying the apron with the other one. She called out something in a rapid quick-fire speech that Will assumed was Neapolitan dialect – although if it had been pure Italian he would still have been none the wiser.

  He was ushered inside – the door leading straight into a kitchen with a makeshift wooden table and an ancient stove. Signora Tornabene gabbled some instructions to the small boy, who left the apartment, the sound of his rapid descent echoing from the stairwell.

  A man came forward and shook Will’s hand. ‘Sono il papà di Paolo,’ he said. Will knew enough to work that one out, but was surprised that this was Paolo’s father since the man looked about sixty. But then so did the mother. Life in Naples must take its toll.

  ‘Buonasera,’ said Will, wishing he had sought some lessons in Italian from Paolo, as he had now reached the limit of his knowledge. He looked around him, unsure what to do next. The door burst open and the small boy, followed by a long line of Tornabenes, entered the room, all lining up to greet Will.

  He was astonished and relieved at the reception he was receiving, having expected anger. The family crowded around Paolo’s brother as he read the letter aloud and it occurred to Will that perhaps the older members of the family couldn’t read. There were sighs and shaking heads and many hand movements but no anger directed at Will. Paolo must have shouldered the blame for his absence rather than blaming it on him. His shame deepened. His friend was generous to a fault, and now as each family member greeted him, the young men with embraces, the two daughters with shy smiles, Will, for the first time in years, experienced a sudden sense of loss at his lack of any living family. What would it have been like if his mother hadn’t died, if his brother hadn’t been the rotten core that had ruined his family, if his father hadn’t sacrificed his own life to save Will’s? What would it have been like if Hattie had remained at home, under the positive influence of her mother, instead of being overindulged by the timid schoolmistress who had brought her up after their mother’s death? How would his life have been different if, instead of falling in love with Elizabeth, he had been content to continue having her in his life as his stepmother? What if he’d visited his father in prison – might he have persuaded him to appeal his conviction?

  All this rushed through Will’s head in a moment, before he was led to the table, around which, somehow, the entire family managed to squeeze. He picked up the bag Paolo had given him and emptied the contents onto the table top. Paolo had tied each item with a label and string and the family members scrambled to grab at the booty, until Paolo’s mother shouted something, then began passing the gifts to their designated owners, who took them with shrieks of delight. The gifts were mere trinkets – ten a penny in the local African markets – yet the Tornabenes accepted them as if they were the most precious treasures.

  Looking around the room, Will saw how basic it was, how it lacked anything without function. His home at Wilton’s Creek had been a squalid hovel until Elizabeth had arrived and transformed it with little touches, so Will was no stranger to shabby surroundings. Yet Casa Tornabene was spotless, even if completely lacking adornment. It was only then that Will spotted the grey-haired lady sitting, like a tiny gargoyle in a wooden chair in the corner – la nonna – the grandmother Paolo had so often spoken of. When la mamma handed her a small carved giraffe, the old
woman began to weep, a profusion of tears coursing down her cheeks.

  Bewildered by the cacophony of voices around him, Will was about to make his exit, when he was pressed back into his seat, offered a glass of wine and a bowl of what looked like some kind of vegetable soup, along with a basket of fresh bread. He tried to protest, using hand movements but la signora was having none of it.

  ‘Mangia, mangia!’ she said, as she passed out bowls to each family member. ‘Minestrone!’

  Will had never tasted a soup so delicious. To his surprise it was also filling, especially accompanied by the crusty bread. Unaccustomed to drinking wine, preferring beer, he appreciated the robust flavour of the local wine, after il signor Tornabene had poured it into a pottery jug from a huge flagon in the corner, then handed him a tumbler. It may not have been the finest of vintages, but this everyday, rough-and-ready vino rosso went down well.

  The simple meal over, the Tornabenes lined up to embrace him again, one by one, each giving him a wide grin.

  Will clattered down the stone stairs and into the street. By now it was after eleven, but there were people everywhere, even children. Old men sat on steps and low walls smoking and putting the world to rights, while young men stood around, also smoking, but posturing like peacocks as they eyed up any attractive passing woman. It was strange how Italian women were so fresh and vital when young and single, yet appeared to advance rapidly into premature old age once they were married with children – there seemed to be no middle ground. But, as most of them had big families and small incomes, it was not surprising that life took its toll on their looks and figures.

  The Tornabenes home was on the side of the city closest to Mount Vesuvius and he could see its dark slopes in the distance, looming threateningly over the city. There was a breeze from the south and he could discern a slight sulphurous stink in the air, mingling with the strong smell of fish and the sweetness of ripe tomatoes. There was also an undercurrent – a faint aroma of damp and decay where the ancient buildings crowded together and the heat and light of the sun didn’t reach. A city of contrasts – of brilliant sunlight and dark shadows – also reflected in its architecture. An ancient city, with relics from Rome through Napoleon and the Bourbon kings, all leaving their marks in a melange of buildings and monuments, elegance jostling with symbols of power and strength – all intermingled with the ad hoc, haphazard sprawl of homes crammed with people, where poverty and disease were no strangers.