Not the Same Sky (9 page)

‘Well that’s not my fault,’ Julia said, grown up again.

Maybe he should have said nothing.

‘What happened?’ Anne Sherry asked.

‘What does a voyage mean?’

‘It’s a journey.’

‘Ah.’

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing. It’s the same as a journey?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you come back from it?’

‘I don’t know.’

Julia sat on her bunk and stayed quiet for some time. Anne didn’t like the way she looked.

Then came the sound of a bell, and the girls, remembering Charles Strutt’s instructions, moved to their classes. Those who didn’t were reminded by the others. And so a stream of girls with neat dresses and no bonnets came up from below and moved towards the tables where classes would be taught. The sub matrons, who had now been designated as teachers, organised seats and lines and looked more confident than they felt. Julia Cuffe’s teacher cleared her throat and got on with the class she had planned, concealing from them that she had worked out the exact things to say and how often to repeat them. Matron had told her that it got easier with each class. She needed to wipe her brow but decided not to. The girls watched her intently, even Julia. One of them thought that she could do that too. But when a moment of doubt came to her, she thought no, she would watch the teacher carefully and maybe she could do that in the future, if she was allowed.

There came from the room the steady sound of a voice, warming to the way the plan was working. And there came too, an inexplicable sensation, an emotion, gratification.

CHAPTER 10

The
Thomas Arbuthnot
had been at sea for over two weeks when an unexpected problem arose between Charles and the captain. It was a hot day, and tempers were frayed. Charles wanted to make a wire grating for the main hatch—‘One that can be kept open all day to circulate the air,’ he said.

The captain bristled. There had been moments like this before. Sometimes a difference of opinion would erupt between them about such things as washing days, which might be interfering with work the captain thought more important than clean clothes. It had happened last week. The sailors were caulking and so Charles agreed to postpone the washing until the next day. The caulking was not complete on the following day, but he proceeded with the washing. The captain’s fury was out of proportion with the inconvenience. He gave vent to his anger, which was not good for discipline. Thankfully none of the girls heard, or so Charles hoped, but you could never be sure, there was always a stray girl around going from one place to another or sitting on a step trying not to be seen, thinking something that was best not talked about.

Nor did the captain like that all the decisions regarding the girls were made by Charles. He was also dismissive of the sermons given by him on Sundays. Charles knew this. And while accepting that he was not a proper pastor, he did think his leading of prayers was not so terribly unworthy, and certainly did not warrant the half sneer on the captain’s face. It was difficult to pray when such a temporal thing as a sneer was before you. He had enough things to be concerned about anyway. As he gave his Church of England service on the poop deck, he kept his ear attentive for sounds from below, where the girls, most of them Catholic, were also supposed to be praying. But Charles doused his annoyance. Overenthusiastic pride could explode on a journey such as this. Just when things were going smoothly a crisis could erupt, not just with the girls, but the crew also. And Charles knew that he and the captain would, when the time came, praise each other for reaching journey’s end, remembering only the neatness and accomplishment of their arrival. And this would be best achieved if they pocketed their little rages.

Charles said again, but quieter this time, ‘It would help the air to circulate?’ He inserted the sound of a question mark to allow the captain a degree of decision. It worked. The captain backed down over the necessity of making the grating, although he grumbled a little over the expense and the diversion. Why was it necessary he mumbled, they were young girls, they could put up with a bit of heat, they would be fine. And they weren’t paying.

The wire grating was made quickly and cheaply—quicker and cheaper than the grumble. Charles would pocket that too. But he would have to learn how to get the captain on his side, to avoid shouting matches that could frighten girls. He went up on deck and watched Bridget Joyce whispering to her bird.

By now there were many strange birds so she had several choices. There were small ones and big ones, white, grey, black, and ones full of plumage, ducking and diving, flying beside the boat or flying at it, swooping their bodies in time with the flap of the sails. Bridget did not mind that some people knew she talked to them. But today she was also interested in a great whale that was following them earnestly but without curiosity. Charles told her as much as he knew about them, and she occasionally looked at him in her way and then back to the whale.

‘Are you liking classes?’ Charles asked.

‘Yes. We have books at home.’

‘And where is home?’ Charles used the same tense as Bridget.

‘It doesn’t matter now,’ she said, and went back to looking at the whale.

He wasn’t sure if he had made an unforgivable intrusion into her world.

‘I like the map,’ she said. ‘Birds fly whatever way they want through the map. They don’t care. But they always know where they are going. See the way they take off. It’s like the way a hat takes off from your head in the wind. But the hat falls. They don’t. They’re made to fly, they trap the wind and use it. It’s like swimming. It’s like us on this boat. We’re flying through the water, they’re flying through the air. I like it best when they’re above my head, like this,’ and she put her head back to look at the birds above her.

Charles did not know if he was expected to answer this.

‘Did you look at birds at home too?’ he asked.

‘Not as much. There was more to do.’

‘Would you like a glass of lime? I could get you one.’

‘Yes, please.’

Charles was suddenly afraid and was glad to have something practical to do. He brought Bridget down after she had finished her lime and put her beside Honora.

That evening he filled his log, all quiet below after a placid dusk. But early the next morning an unheralded storm blew up suddenly. It followed after what had been an unsatisfactory windless two days. It tossed their ship and the equilibrium that had worked itself into their, by now, acceptable days of cleaning, eating, learning and dancing. The dancing had worked out well, except of course during storms. Complaints and necessary punishment too were now down to a minimum. Cantankerousness among the few was becoming bearable. The off days of individual girls were diminishing into the whole. But this storm caught them unawares, and for that very reason, brought a sharp edge of hopelessness with it.

Bridget Joyce was not surprised by it, she had been expecting it. The birds had told her the previous evening, in particular the tern that fluffed the feathers on its chest when expecting a change. So while others cried at the ferocity of it and tried to keep themselves strapped into their berths—pointless with all the getting in and out to be sick, if they could even move—Bridget lay on her bed, her body straightened and thought about the birds. When it eased somewhat, she would go back up to find out what they were saying now. They were lucky it was daytime. It never seemed so bad when there was light outside. Even if they could not see it in their quarters below brightness, they knew it was there. The boat rolled and slid and groaned sometimes when hit by a particularly large wave. Doors banged, cups and the small belongings of girls could be heard thudding to the ground. The breaking glass tinkled. Below, even more below than the girls, one trunk had freed itself and hit the others sporadically as it slid from side to side. The girls tended to each other as best they could. Those with sturdy stomachs helped those who had succumbed to dry retching. And just when it looked as if it could not get worse, the storm turned itself up and became even more frightening.

‘Are we going to die?’

‘No,’ Charles said. ‘This is now the worst and it will get better soon.’

This was the part of the sea that Charles had forgotten.

The awfulness was apparent in their faces, and yet Honora felt this dreadful day did at least break up the hours. It gave her something immediate to deal with and took her mind off the savagery of what had happened to her and the rest of girls around her. She did not say this.

A slight abatement came and grew in the water. Charles made a consoling announcement about the now foreseeable end.

Honora went up on deck. She had to use all her strength to open the door, which was being buffeted by a ferocious wind. As she struggled up the stairs, distastefully putting her feet down as best she could, a magnet appeared to pull her stomach up to her throat. But once on deck, watching the horizon, there was a reasonableness about the storm. One minute she saw only sea, and a few moments later only sky. But it was better to watch. Up here she could count the number of crashing waves and corrugated bounces that it took to achieve the change in view. Up here, the noises of the sick had space to waft out and away. And up here she could see the gradual levelling of the bumps.

The birds were still swooping, but occasional dips looked like a cavort, as if they knew the end was in sight and that no great harm had been done. As she made her way back down the stairs she peeped into the room that was their eating quarter, and saw that the crew, who had no doubt been lying down themselves, were beginning to ready the tables. Still holding firm against the gravity in the middle of the floor, they prepared as best they could. Some of the girls could now swear by the best spots to stand during a storm, having watched this trick. They were wetting cloths to put on the table to stop the plates, mugs and cutlery from sliding—whoever turned up to eat must be made comfortable.

‘That will be the last one before the Cape,’ a sailor said in sympathy as she passed, moved perhaps by the look of her and the knowledge that his daughter was safe in bed on a floor that did not move. Honora believed him about the last storm, it seemed the hopeful thing to do.

And then the sea calmed. After checking the condition of his charges, Charles surveyed the damage. Almost half of the lanterns were broken and gloom threatened. What if the girls could not see at night? How much more difficult would that make the remainder of their journey? They were not even close to halfway yet.

‘What will we do for light?’

There was always a voice to say aloud one’s worst fears. He would have to come up with some way to fix the lanterns. So he got bottles and tied a string tight where he wanted the neck and bottom cut—it was worth a try. Girls watched him silently.

‘I know what you’re going to do next,’ Julia Cuffe said.

The sound of her voice saying a normal thing encouraged him greatly. He wondered if he should ask her what she thought he might do, because in fact he wasn’t sure. But he stopped himself, because a reply might push her back against her own wall. Charles twisted the string and rubbed it patiently around the desired place of friction until the line got hot. Yes, this was how to do it. Patience. He must not rush. He concentrated on not breaking the glass before it was ready. Some girls smiled as they saw the progress. They all stayed quiet. Then he doused it in cold water, achieving, in most circumstances, an almost clean break. He then fitted this regular globe into the lanterns. All was light again. The girls still watched, then clapped, as each lantern got its new cover. The joy destroyed the memory of the storm. Bridget Joyce whispered that he had made light. It pulled him up straight, because in truth, he hadn’t been feeling too good that day.

Charles went downstairs and wrote some letters, which he would give to the next ship they met wending its return journey to England. As he wrote, he thought himself lucky that he had people to whom he could write. He went back upstairs and was especially nice to the girls, forgave those needing forgiveness and made an extra effort to speak to the shy.

‘He is nice.’

‘Nice enough, you’re right.’

Julia Cuffe didn’t make her usual sound.

CHAPTER 11

Charles wrote in his diary that nothing much of note had happened for a while, other than a small problem about Sunday service. Charles liked when nothing much of note happened. There were of course the usual little things, the Sunday service being one of these. One of the sub matrons, who should have been keeping order while Charles preached, was either too busy or inattentive to quiet a few noisy girls. It wasn’t as if it was a difficult job with so few girls at his service. Charles confiscated a lime juice—any slip of order now could quickly undo all the good work. But later that night while out checking the decks he relented, and decided that the small gesture was all that was required. It hadn’t been a serious derogation of duty. Getting the balance right required flexibility. It would be forgotten about, though learned from, by next Sunday. As he was thinking about this he tripped over an errant steward, who was in irons, but already getting his apologies in order, having decided that work of any and all kinds was preferable. Charles bade him goodnight then engaged in a few pleasant words.