‘We’ve lost a man overboard?’ The master’s face was grave.
Cassidy responded, ‘One of the lascars – disobeying my order to go below.’
Will was too stunned to speak. He stood there dumb, mouth open.
The master glanced at Will, but gave no sign that he had registered his shock. ‘Nothing we can do for him. Poor wretch has no chance in these seas.’ Palmer shook his head, his face grim. Losing a crewman to the anger of the seas was never easy for a captain. ‘Who was he?’
Cassidy shrugged. ‘They all look the same to me.’
‘His name was Ashok.’ Will addressed Palmer, avoiding looking at Cassidy and barely able to control his anger. He wanted to tell Palmer the truth about what had happened but knew it would do no good. Cassidy would deny it. He ranked higher than Will, and the attitude towards lascars in the merchant navy was that they were expendable.
Yet Will didn’t want to let it go. The surviving man, Sachin, could corroborate his story. But would they be believed? If only Tornabene had witnessed it too, but by then he was already through the hatch door. Will knew he had to tell Palmer. Even if the master chose not to believe him.
The storm lasted for several hours but the Christina withstood the buffeting through the bay. Will sat beside Paolo’s berth as his friend continued to throw up the contents of his stomach – even the water that Will kept urging him to drink. Half the crew were vomiting – even some of the old hands.
By now Paolo’s anger at his friend seemed to have dissipated. Will rubbed the Italian’s back as he bent over a bucket. ‘No shame, my friend. They say even Lord Nelson got seasick in a storm.’
It was early next morning before Will had a chance to talk to the Master. He went to his stateroom and knocked on the door. Palmer listened as Will told him how Cassidy had ordered the two lascars to batten down the loose crate, even though they were not lashed to the ship.
‘And Cassidy himself?’
‘Lashed to the bulkhead.’
‘Witnesses?’
Will shook his head. ‘Tornabene went below just before it happened. Only me and Sachin.’
Palmer let out a long sigh and rested his forehead on one palm. ‘I spoke to Bosun Cassidy last night. He was categoric that the lascars defied his orders to go below.’
Will stared straight ahead and swallowed. This could cost him his career.
‘Then he was lying, sir. The two men were terrified. The deck was awash. Yes, we’d have lost the crate, but we wouldn’t have lost a man.’
‘Perhaps I should summon Bosun Cassidy back and have you repeat your allegations in front of him.’
Will groaned. ‘He’ll deny it, sir.’ He dug his nails into his palms as he clutched his fists behind his back.
Palmer studied Will’s face for a few moments, then gave a little shake of his head. ‘I don’t want trouble on my ship – especially now we’re on the last leg home. In the absence of corroboratory witnesses, Cassidy, as the senior man, will carry the day among the crew. He’s a popular crew member. You know that as well as I do.’
‘Sachin was there too, sir. It’s not just me.’
Palmer looked embarrassed, then shook his head again. ‘I believe you, Kidd, but you know the drill. I don’t like it any more than you do.’ He steepled his fingers under his nose. ‘But hear this – and it’s to remain within these walls – I will never work with Cassidy again, and I’ll make sure that every master I know understands why.’ He picked up his pipe and lit a match, then put the pipe down again without lighting it. ‘Today we’ll have a small ceremony of remembrance for the poor unfortunate – what did you say his name was?’
‘Ashok, sir.’
‘We’ll give Seaman Ashok a good send-off. Now, get back to your duties, Kidd.’
Chapter Three
February 1938, Seaforth Sands, Liverpool
The wind pulled at the grasses on the dunes, bending them over, throwing up a fine spray of sand that forced Hannah Dawson to turn her head, cover her eyes, and face the other direction. She pulled her coat tight about her and tried to push the unexposed parts of her ears under her felt hat, wishing she’d remembered to put on her scarf.
Slithering down the slope into the valley between two dunes, she huddled out of the wind, knees bent in front of her, and taking the library book out of her handbag started to read, fumbling at the pages with gloved hands. It was this or no reading at all. Hannah hated having to be so furtive, but books were forbidden in the Dawson household, apart from the Bible. Her father was resolute on that point. All books, with the exception of the ‘Good Book’, were the work of the devil. Hannah had learnt that the hard way when she was a child. Her father had caught her reading a battered copy of Oliver Twist, borrowed from a schoolfriend, and had thrown it on the fire. Ever since, her love for reading undiminished, she had found ways to indulge her passion clandestinely. She shuddered to think what her father would do if he found out about her secret trips to the library. And were he to find the book she was reading now, his rage would be boundless. Rosamund Lehman’s The Weather in the Streets. The ‘oh, damn, oh hell’ of the first paragraph would be enough to condemn it, never mind the adultery, divorce and worse. Charles Dawson’s volatile temper was a cause for fear for Hannah, her younger sister, Judith, and her mother, Sarah.
Just that morning, during breakfast, Judith had mentioned that she would be home a little later than usual from the dressmakers where she worked, as there was a rush order for a wedding gown. She’d directed the remark at Hannah but the explosion from Charles Dawson was titanic.
‘You are employed to work between the hours of eight and four-thirty and I expect you to be inside this house by a quarter to five every day. No exceptions.’
‘But, Father, there’s a good reason. Mrs Compton asked me specially. Miss Finch was ill earlier in the week and so we’ve fallen behind and the wedding is on Saturday. If I don’t work a little late tonight the bride’s fitting will be delayed.’
The hand thumped the table so hard that the crockery rattled, tea slopped into saucers and a fork fell onto the floor. Before Hannah could bend down to pick it up, her father had kicked it across the room, where it clattered against the skirting board.
‘I should never have allowed you to go to work. You should be at home until you are married.’ He swiped his napkin across his mouth and flung it down on the table. ‘Wedding dresses are a disgraceful vanity. I had no idea you were involved in the making of such things.’ He scowled at his wife. ‘You told me she’d be making coats and hemming blankets.’
Sarah Dawson looked away and said nothing.
‘But Father—’ Judith’s face showed a mixture of fear and anguish.
’Shut your mouth. You’ll be back inside this house at four forty-five. And I want no discussion.’
With that, Dawson rose from the table, picked up his hat from the sideboard and left the house, banging the front door behind him.
When he was gone, Judith burst into tears. ‘It’s not fair. Why is he like that? Why can’t he be like a normal father? Why can’t we be like other people? Now I’ll probably lose my job. If the dress isn’t finished what’s the bride going to do?’ She dissolved into more sobbing.
Hannah placed a comforting hand on her sister’s arm. ‘You could always work through the dinner hour, Jude. That might help. If you explain to Miss Finch she’ll understand.’
‘How can anyone understand? How can anyone else know what it’s like to have a father like ours?’
As all this was going on, Sarah Dawson finished her cup of tea, got up from the table then said, ‘I don’t feel well. I’m going to lie down for a while. Clear up, Hannah.’ She said it as though it were unusual, but Hannah had done most of the housework since their father had dismissed the maid, complaining that she was lazy and he couldn’t afford to pay her. Sarah Dawson had limits, and housework was one of them. Born into a wealthy merchant family, she wasn’t going to work as a skivvy, not even in her own home. Rece
ntly, it seemed to Hannah and Judith that their mother spent more time in her bed than out of it.
When Sarah had gone upstairs, the sisters exchanged a look, and Hannah rolled her eyes. Sarah Dawson had become passive, withdrawn, submissive. The sisters remembered it hadn’t always been that way; but over the years their father had knocked the stuffing out of their mother until she had become silent and reclusive. The loss of her only son, two years younger than Judith, to whooping cough, when he was a small child, the death of two other daughters in infancy and a series of miscarriages, had killed her capacity for joy – indeed for life itself.
There was no predicting Charles Dawson’s behaviour. Sometimes he acted as though the three women didn’t exist, eating his meals in silence before withdrawing to the small front parlour that he referred to as his study. Hannah wondered how a room that contained neither books nor writing materials could be worthy of the designation ‘study’. She suspected he fell asleep in front of the fire but couldn’t be sure, as they were all forbidden entry when he was in there. On other occasions, like this morning, the slightest thing was a provocation to him, causing him to explode in a fury that left his daughters bewildered and his wife mute and cowed.
After the incident with Oliver Twist, Dawson had insisted the two girls be withdrawn from school and educated at home, a task that fell to their mother, who had neither the inclination nor the energy for it. Reading and composition, foreign languages, history, as well as natural sciences and geography were deemed unsuitable subjects by Dawson, leaving only simple mathematics, Bible studies and domestic economy, none of which interested Sarah Dawson in the slightest. Hannah and Judith were mostly left to their own devices, with their father regularly testing them on their knowledge of the scriptures but doing little else. Any education they had acquired was down to their own natural curiosity, fed by illicit trips to the library in Hannah’s case, and being taught to sew and embroider by the lady next-door, in Judith’s.
Their educational needs were of no interest to anyone, once the occasional enquiries of the school board inspectors ceased when Judith turned fourteen. Judith’s talent for sewing had recently led to her apprenticeship with a ladies’ tailor. Today’s outburst from her father indicated this was unlikely to be a lasting arrangement.
Hannah had shown some aptitude for figures and so, from the age of fifteen, she was required to attend her father’s business premises three afternoons each week to assist with the book-keeping, with a view to her taking over when the clerk responsible retired. Four years on, his retirement did not appear to have come any closer. Hannah’s part-time employment did not arise from any belief on her father’s part that women should be allowed to make their way in the world, but entirely from his desire to reduce the firm’s outgoings. She was expected to perform her duties for no more than her bed and board in the family home, a considerable saving for her father. Given his extreme parsimony, Hannah was surprised he hadn’t pressured Mr Busby, the clerk, into relinquishing his role, but she was grateful he hadn’t, as what little liberty she did enjoy would be curtailed once she was under the scrutiny of her father full-time.
The business, Morton’s Coffee Importers, was a struggling enterprise. Charles Dawson had an unshakeable belief in his own prowess as a businessman, against all evidence to the contrary. He himself had started out as a clerk to the company, which had belonged to his wife’s family. After Hannah’s maternal grandfather had emigrated to Australia when she was a small child, the firm had been sold, but her father had continued to be employed there. Hannah didn’t know the circumstances behind his eventual take-over of the business but his management had brought about no reversal in the downward fortunes of the business. Ten years ago, the family had been forced to move from Trevelyan House, their once-elegant town house north of Liverpool, to live in a small redbrick terrace in one of the crowded streets close to the docks. Her mother had never got over the humiliation.
Hannah’s reading was disturbed by the screams of a group of seagulls that were wheeling and diving close to the water’s edge. She looked up. The wind had whipped up the waves so the dark grey mass of the water, where the Irish Sea met the River Mersey estuary, was broken by the foam of ‘white horses’. It was hard to concentrate on her book when she was so cold. Before long she’d need to head back along the waterfront to the area where the sands gave way to the concrete and brick of the docks and their hinterland. Stuffing the book inside her bag, she clambered onto her feet, deciding a brisk walk was a better idea. Her attempts to concentrate had been clouded by errant thoughts, so better to give free rein to them while she tried to warm herself.
Lately, Hannah had been doing a lot of thinking. She had started to feel anxious. Very anxious. About what her father might be planning for her and her sister.
Chapter Four
The Christina sailed onwards towards Liverpool, the final destination of their eighteen-month voyage. As was the normal practice at the end of a long trip, all the ratings would be dismissed, left to find another position, take some unpaid shore leave, or wait to sign articles again with the same ship. The merchant navy was a hard task master. If a ship was unlucky enough to sink, the wages of its crew were stopped as soon as the ship went down, regardless of whether they survived or not, or the time taken to be rescued. Had rating Ashok arranged for some or all of his pay to be transferred to his family back home, the payments would have ceased the moment his body was washed overboard.
Will felt ashamed that, apart from knowing the man’s name, he knew nothing of the lascar. Was he married? A father? Would a whole family be both grief-stricken and immediately impoverished as a result of his death?
At the ceremony to mark Ashok’s demise, Jake Cassidy acted as though the dead man had been an intimate friend. He lowered his head respectfully and shaped his features into a mask of tragic concern. But the sly smirk on his face when he thought no one was looking was proof enough to Will that the bosun felt no remorse. As the captain concluded his brief eulogy for the lost seaman, Will glanced again at Cassidy and tightened his fists as he saw the falsely pious expression back on the bosun’s face. He burned with indignation that Cassidy was not to be called to task for the negligence and cruelty that had cost the lascar his life. He tried to take comfort from the fact that, if Palmer were right, word of the bosun’s behaviour would spread faster than Cassidy could sign his next articles. He may not be charged for the negligence, which in Will’s eyes was tantamount to an act of murder, but at least he might have to join the ranks of the unemployed.
* * *
The Pier Head took shape through the early morning mist, and Will and Paolo leaned on the railings, watching as the ship moved closer. The Liverpool skyline was familiar to most merchant sailors, with its three elegant dock-front edifices – the Cunard Building, the Royal Liver Building and Port of Liverpool Building.
Will turned to Paolo, ‘What will you do now? Will you wait for the Christina?’
‘The second officer say me it will be many weeks – and I must save money. You know… I have to get Loretta away from Napoli and her family. I want to take her one day to America. So, I cannot wait for work. Maybe I find a job on a ship for the Mediterranean.’ His lips formed a smile, but his eyes were sad.
‘Good luck with that. There’s not much work going. You know as well as I do how many shipping lines have gone to the wall recently.’
Paolo frowned, puzzled. ‘Gone to the wall? What wall?’
‘Gone out of business. You could try one of the Norwegian lines. They’ve bought up a lot of the British ships. And most of them are converted to oil – better than these dirty old coal-burners. Or you could try and join the Royal Navy.’ He winked at Paolo. ‘Nah! They wouldn’t take an Italian.’ He grinned.
Paolo shook his head, indignant. ‘I would never wear the uniform of the British Navy.’
‘You could always join the Italian one.’
Paolo grunted. ‘To serve il Duce? Never. Mussolini is a very bad
man.’
Will looked at his friend. ‘Well, you’re a good-looking fellow, Paolo. And all that Italian charm. Maybe you should try for a job on a passenger ship. Cunard? Or the White Star? Work as a steward. On the transatlantic crossings they say the tips from rich Americans are worth a fortune.’
‘Certo – but that means the wages will be very bad.’ Paolo laughed. ‘I will see what I can get. I must eat the soup or jump out of the window.’
‘What?’ Will pulled a face.
‘It’s an Italian expression – o mangi questa minestra o salti questa finestra. It’s not the same in English?’
Will snorted. ‘If it is, I’ve never heard of it, but don’t ask me: I’m an Aussie. I think you’ll find most people prefer to say beggars can’t be choosers.’
Paolo laughed and repeated the idiom. ‘I will remember that. It will be very useful.’
Their laughter stopped when the voice of Cassidy interrupted them. ‘Get forward you miserable malingerers. There’s five holds to be emptied and scrubbed out and we need the covers off the hatches before the wharfies come on board. If I find a single bleeding cockroach when you’re done, you’ll be scrubbing the holds out again. Just the two of you. Now move!’
Will swallowed his indignation. Not much longer to put up with Cassidy now. While on the surface the merchant navy might appear more relaxed than the Royal Navy, with no uniform and often a reputation for bolshie behaviour, its vessels were regimented and operated to the timing of the ships’ bells, and the rostering of the bosun was under the orders of the officers and ultimately the master. A voyage could be hell if the officers or the bosun chose to make it so.
It took all day for the dockers to empty the Christina’s holds of their cargo of salt, palm oil, cotton, and coffee beans, at the Queen’s Dock, and most of the next for the ship’s crew to clean the holds from top to bottom to Cassidy’s satisfaction. The deck of the ship looked chaotic: a mess of tarpaulins, rope, hatch boards, hoses and cables. When the discharging and cleaning was complete, the Christina manoeuvred into the graving dock where the necessary repairs to her hull and superstructure would be taking place. There they were expected to scrub down the decks, stow all the unloading gear and generally ready the ship for its period in dry dock.
Storms Gather Between Us Page 5
