The Surfacing (7 page)

Who else knows? he said, and heard himself saying it. That was what he finally managed
to say.

Just the three of us here in this room, MacDonald said. No one else.

Three weeks you're stowing her in here, without one other soul in the know? I don't
believe you. It's not possible.

Believe what you like, MacDonald told him. But there she is.

The man was right, of course. What he said was true. The proof of it was only three
feet away, sitting on the bed.

She says she is carrying your child, MacDonald said.

Even as he heard the words, Morgan felt the planks under his bootsoles wavering,
preparing to cede. A sickening lurch, as the entire solid world fell away. Suddenly
there was no
bottom, no solid surface to crash – crush – into, to give this moment
an end. He reached for the post to steady himself.

She says, he said.

A woman tends to know these things, MacDonald said. Especially when it concerns herself.
You're not going to contradict her, I hope. Or are you going to try to tell me that,
how shall I put it, that the means were not put at her disposal, for such a thing
to come to pass?

Morgan had been listening with his head bowed, penitent. He now reached out and opened
the door, as if to go. In turn, MacDonald reached to take hold of Morgan's arm, to
keep him, and oblige him to face full square his responsibilities. At the first touch
Morgan's hands shot out and lifted the man bodily off the ground. He carried him
out into the corridor, like a docker hefting a hundredweight sack of grain.

The officers' door was kicked open.

MacDonald was thrown into the room.

At the table, Cabot was looking up expectantly, ready to be amused. He'd come to
collect the dirty ware.

Out, Morgan said, but Cabot stood where he was, faltering, unsure. MacDonald lay
sprawled on the floor, panting, a hounded look on his face.

OUT! Morgan roared, and there was now great ambition in his voice.

Cabot scrambled past him. The door slammed shut. Morgan dragged MacDonald off the
floor and held him up. He lifted a fist and the man whimpered like a child. Disgusted,
Morgan flung him bodily away, as hard as he could, into the great man's mirror screwed
onto the wall, in which he had so often studied his own sorry face.

You too, Morgan said eventually. It sounded like he was talking to himself. He sat
down on the edge of his bunk. Get out, he said mildly. Get out of my sight.

He sat on the edge of his bunk, waiting for the news, like a condemned man in his
cell. DeHaven was in MacDonald's cabin now, on the other side of the wall. Waiting,
Morgan felt
neither fear nor impatience. What he felt was a curious kind of inertia,
a physical resistance, his body's refusal to move. Strangely, he seemed to have been
waiting for this moment for years. The braver part of him already knew it was true.
In his mind he was already rehearsing the announcement, testing the words. The right
words seemed not to exist. Somehow, to announce they were to have a child aboard.
No, he thought, reaching for the brake. Not a child. A pregnant woman. It was not
necessarily the same thing. No matter, these were words should never be pronounced
on a ship. They were a betrayal. Of what kind, he did not know. He wondered who should
be most disappointed with him. Who had earned that right. He himself was not particularly
outraged. Merely surprised it had taken so long – thirty-six years – for such an
indignity to come to light.

Sooner or later they would come to summon him, to appear before his captain. All
he wanted now was for it to be done. The news unparcelled, set adrift, irretrievable.
He sat staring at the calendar, giving it one last chance to prove her wrong.

The door opened and DeHaven stepped in. The man looked slightly ashamed, as though
he had a tale to tell on himself.

Well? Morgan said.

She wants to see you.

Fine. But the examination?

She wants to tell you herself.

I've been waiting long enough.

She made me promise.

With an insubordinate sigh, Morgan stood up and strode out into the corridor, banged
hard on MacDonald's door.

Who is it? asked a woman's voice.

He flung the door open and slammed it shut – but slammed too hard, and the door bounced
back at him.

You don't need to tell me, he said. I already know.

He told you? she said. She sounded nicely surprised, nothing more.

If it was good news you wouldn't have asked him to keep his mouth shut.

She had nothing to say to that.

In any case, Morgan told her, she – they – would have to wait for the end of the
month, the second month, whenever that was going to be, before she could even begin
to be sure.

One week next Monday, she said, but Morgan hardly cared, the exact delay did not
matter, all he wanted now was something to hold the danger at bay.

Well, we'll have to wait and see, he said. As though the decision ultimately resided
with someone else, in some other place. As though no one aboard, not even DeHaven,
had the proper authority.

How can he be so sure? he said, pointing at her belly. A quick examination like that?
Just lying you up on the bed?

He's a doctor, she said.

That's what he keeps telling us.

Inconvenient, isn't it?

There was a knock on the door, and Morgan opened it instantly. Showing them that,
from the first, he refused to hide.

It was Cabot. Dinner is served, he said, then turned his head slightly, to nod. Mademoiselle,
he said.

They listened to him go.

Dinner is served, Morgan told her.

Go then, she said. Go and eat.

Morgan stood in the open door, behind Myer's back, as Myer ferried his soup spoon
from bowl to mouth. MacDonald was sitting at the end of the table, head down. Myer
would have been told, of course, but Morgan wondered would the man force him to make
the announcement himself, here, in public. Myer finally set his spoon on the table
and twisted round to face his second-in-command. Above all, Morgan saw, he did not
want to seem surprised.

I suppose I should shake your hand, Myer said. But he did not stand up, or turn around
properly, or reach out his arm.

There were two empty places waiting, fully set. One on each side of the table, at
opposite ends. Morgan sat with his
back to the door, so that he would not be obliged
to look up or ignore her if she came in. Cabot set a bowl of soup before him, almost
as soon as he sat down. Apart from Myer, the others were all still eating when she
arrived.

You'll remember all my colleagues, Myer said. He named them all, one by one. And
of course Mr Morgan, he said. Gentlemen, you all remember Miss Rink.

She looked around. Very nice, she said. Very cosy.

Everything a man could possibly want within easy reach, DeHaven said.

And how many of you in here?

For the moment, four, DeHaven said. He glanced at MacDonald. It was hard to see how
they might fit another one. The cabin was not much bigger than a penitentiary cell.
Two berths on each side, each two and a half feet wide. The six feet in-between –
‘the country' – was completely occupied by the hinged table and benches.

You'll have to excuse the cook, DeHaven said. He didn't know we'd be having company.

What is good enough for you all, she said. The thing felt like wet flour in the mouth.

She ate quietly, like a woman eating alone. There was the occasional polite inquiry
from Myer. Was it warm enough? Not too warm? Had she had enough? She nodded obediently.

A bit rich tonight, Cabot, the sauce, MacDonald said.

The other men did their best to answer him, to chat. It was like the first effort
at conversation between strangers. Only Morgan said nothing at all. They would have
plenty of time in each other's company, he knew, to say what they wanted to say.
So far into The Pack, so late in the season, there was no question of another about
turn. Saving another accident, Beechey would be their next port of call.

You'd think the mushrooms would have come out stronger, wouldn't you? MacDonald said.
He sounded puzzled. He was prodding the mess suspiciously, as though searching for
something important, that he was determined to find.

She rose to go to bed early, said it had been a tiring day.
No one offered to accompany
her to her cabin. Goodnight, MacDonald said, that was all.

As soon as she was gone, Myer downed his cutlery and pushed his plate away. Cabot,
he said, lifting a phantom glass to his lips. His forefinger turned a neat little
circle. For everyone, he said, even as MacDonald made to stand.

The measures were poured. With great formality, Myer lifted the little glass. The
other men did the same. Some of the hands were trembling. Only Morgan had not touched
his.

To Miss Rink and to her child, Myer said. Good health and a long life.

Several voices echoed him. Except Morgan, they all drank.

You're not drinking? Myer said.

I'm not thirsty, Morgan said.

I don't think he should feel obliged, DeHaven said. I think that's quite contrary
to the spirit of the thing.

I will drink if you order me to drink, Morgan said.

The other men sat in silence, feeling it go down. Afterwards Cabot began to ferry
the dirty dishes away, everything but Morgan's glass. Myer got to his feet and wished
them goodnight. They watched him go. For the first time ever, MacDonald did not follow.
He had been asked to move in with the other officers, and Hepburn to move down to
berth with the men.

Morgan sat awhile in silence, studying the full glass before him, as though suspicious
of the workmanship. In the end he handed it to Cabot, who threw it back in a go.

You know I said my wife was expecting another one? Brooks said.

Morgan nodded.

Well, there was a letter from her in Parker's bag.

False alarm? Morgan said.

False alarm or false start, I don't know what exactly women call these things.

I suppose she was upset, Morgan said.

I suppose, Brooks said. Still, it wasn't her first, and won't be her last, if ever
I'm let at her again.

Morgan nodded to show he understood. Already one part of his mind was in riot, clamouring
for the worst, the perfect solution. For her, he had to imagine, the grief would
be an ordeal of definite length, like a body of water to be waded through, traversed,
emerge on the far side.

12th August

The next day was Sunday. One by one, the whole ship came up on deck for the service,
even their guest. They stood to listen, bowed their heads.

Even now, as much in station as in motion, MacDonald told them, we offer our heartfelt
gratitude for the love and mercy of He who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.

And of course I cannot let this opportunity pass without expressing publicly my congratulations
to Mr Morgan and Miss Rink, MacDonald said, after his sermon.

There was a long, loud round of applause. To Morgan it sounded like a slab of meat
slapped onto a sizzling pan. He kept his face blank, refused to in any way acknowledge
it.

L'heritier, I think he meant, DeHaven said when it was done.

Ah, Morgan said. Is that what it was?

The entire ship is quite delighted for you, DeHaven said. As you must imagine.

Delighted for me, or delighted at the news?

They seem happy, that's all I will say.

Well, Morgan said, I'm glad I could be the source of so much joy.

Afterwards, he helped her down the ladder again.

A lovely service, she said. This morning.

I suppose it's a useful distraction, he said. It breaks the monotony, marks the passage
of another week.

He looked around MacDonald's cabin. Already she'd made herself at home. The desk
was swarming with needles, hairpins, spools of thread. Under the bed, a pair of
her button-up boots. They looked brittle. They looked too small. They looked like
things from another age, for another race.

Do you believe? he asked her.

No, she said.

Nothing of any persuasion? Morgan said.

No, she said. It was as simple as that. Talk of God, at even the greatest remove,
merely irritated her.

You've played MacDonald fairly smartly then, he said. I wonder would he have been
so quick had he known he was helping a heathen.

Nonsense, she said. He thinks of nothing but their salvation. Why else is he out
here? Have you seen the way he hounds Petersen?

He has his work cut out for him there.

All those nights I had to lie here listening to his blather, she said. He used to
read me passages from the Bible, von Kempen, all that.

Caught in a little nook with a little book, Morgan said. How lovely.

He has great plans for me, I fear.

Does he not realize you may have plans of your own?

They talked. They felt quite alone. It was noon. Almost everyone else had stayed
up on deck, greasing their leather, worshipping the sun.

Did you say goodbye to your brother? Morgan said.

What good would that have done?

You can't leave him thinking you've just vanished off the face of the earth.

I'd wager he hasn't even remarked I am gone.

You're wrong, he'll be worried for you.

I won't go back, she said.

You may be obliged to go back.

I'd rather jump overboard.

Be careful or you'll break a leg.

I'm clear in my mind, she said.

I wonder will you be quite so sure of yourself by the time we get to Beechey. If
we ever do.

She said her mind was fully made up. She said she'd already written her brother a
letter, that she would send back from Beechey. She took it from her journal and held
it out.

He looked at the name, the address. The devout schoolgirl's script. Then, with a
feeling of foreboding, mortal, he slid his finger under the seal. She said nothing
to stop him. The letter was written in prim little strokes on a watermarked sheet.
It was only three lines long: Dear Edmund, it said. It said she was never coming
back. He should not expect further news. There was neither thanks nor reproach. It
said: I hope you will understand, but expect you will not. Your sister, Kitty.