The Trespass (34 page)

Prepare thy daughter Harriet for whatever future thou hast planned for her. And may we all live together on our journey to the other side of the world in Christian peace and harmony and love; endeavouring to administer to each other comfort and friendship, and above all, dear Lord, keep us safe on our journey. We pray for thy blessing on our dear Queen, and our dear country; on our friends and relations and family. We pray for thy blessing on the soul of Harriet’s dear departed sister
(he had been apprised of her circumstances: he thought he heard a sharp intake of breath)
and on Harriet’s father, the Right Honourable Sir Charles Cooper, MP, until he is happily reunited with his daughter. We pray for all who are afflicted in mind, body, or estate. We ask these things in the name of Jesus Christ.

Amen.

‘Amen,’ said Mrs Burlington Brown.

‘Amen,’ said Harriet.

She opened her eyes, saw Mr Brown already helping his wife to her feet; Harriet rose also.

‘Now, my dear Miss Cooper,’ said Mrs Burlington Brown, ‘it is a little blustery, to put it mildly, but we walk on the poop deck once in the morning and once in the evening, with my husband’s sister, Miss Eunice Burlington Brown, who is travelling with us. At first the steerage passengers thought they too could wander on any part of the ship but the Captain soon put a stop to that and our walks now are brisk and pleasant, if somewhat overly invigorating. I and Miss Burlington Brown will call for you each time we set out that you may walk with us, as it would not of course be proper for you to walk alone. Then perhaps we could do some reading together.’

‘I should like that very much,’ said Harriet, ‘I have some of my books with me. It will be a pleasure to read in the fresh air, think of a poem by Wordsworth on the open sea, I shall very much look forward to that.’

Mrs Brown demurred. ‘I meant Bible readings, Miss Cooper,’ she said firmly, ‘or other books of moral merit. We are most exercised with the importance of moral merit on a ship, on a journey. We shall read perhaps in the dining saloon, or our cabins. The weather is not at all suitable for spending long periods in the open air.’

‘However,’ said her husband, who was beginning to feel uneasy again in the small, feminine room (a hairbrush, a small piece of jewellery, the smell of something like lemons), ‘these matters we will discuss when six bells rings. Come, my dear.’

And then they were gone, and Harriet was alone again in her cabin, quite still. She heard again the wind in the sails and the sea rushing by. There was a creaking of timbers everywhere about her as the ship strained forwards, which might have been alarming but was yet somehow rhythmic and comforting to listen to. Last night she had understood that they had truly left England. That she was safe at last. Last night she had at last opened the surprising letter that Cecil had left for her. His handwriting was large and child-like.

Dear Miss Harriet,

I met Miss Mary at Mr Symond Dawson’s Book Emporium in Oxford Street, Mr Dawson was my tutor at the Working Men’s Club she was a good woman was Miss Mary. One night she said to us both if anything happens to me please take care of my sister Harriet, it sounded odd to us as if you did not have a family. Mr Dawson and me was at the funeral but you did not see us. That is why I was waiting for you outside the Parliament, hoping to be of assistance, I had followed you when you went in that lady’s carriage.

If you come back to London I will always serve, my sister Phyllis will find me.

Yr true friend

Cecil Forsythe (esq.)

Mary’s care had still lived on.

Last night also Harriet had heard one of the sailors singing
fare you well, my lovely girl
from somewhere in the darkness. And the words had echoed on and on in her dreams,
fare you well, my lovely girl, my lovely girl.
And then this morning she knew it was time at last to look forwards, not back.

She gathered a shawl about her and for the first time since the ship had sailed away she went outside and up on to the deck. Strong winds blew about her at once and she clung to the rail.

Her first reaction as she looked upwards was one of amazement. The white sails full of the wild Biscay winds were so beautiful. She had never seen a ship in full sail before, how the sails reached out towards their destination like a myriad of white birds, how the ropes pulled taut and strained against the spars and the masts. As she walked further on to the main deck the wind whipped at her too, tried to fill the shawl as if it was a sail also, pulled at her skirt and her hair and her face, brought tears to her eyes. She turned away from the wind, saw the lifeboats swinging above. Right at the back of the poop deck, a lone sailor stood, holding the wheel.

Harriet stood at the ship’s rail, time forgotten. In every direction, the sky disappeared into the horizon, grey and lowering, only the brave little
Amaryllis,
scudding onwards, nothing else as far as the eye could see. She looked over the side of the deck. Grey-green water slipped by, white waves curling and churning and disappearing beneath them. As she looked back she thought perhaps she saw suddenly a flock of birds in the far distance but the vision disappeared into the greyness of the sky and she wondered if she had imagined it.

Further down the ship, by the steerage hatch, a group of young women stood close together talking, holding their shawls tightly, nodding, blown about the deck, coming together again. Two sailors walked past: she saw the sailors and the women stare openly at each other. And then they all laughed – even from where she was standing Harriet caught bursts of laughter that carried to her on the wind. Then one of the ship’s mates called to the sailors and they were away at once, up to the front of the ship, pulling at ropes, winding chains.

Harriet stared again at the sea below, seeing shadows and journeys in the foaming waves’ white curves and falls. And everywhere the smell of salt and air and rope and tar caught at her, pulled at her, and the sound of the sea over and over again declared to her that she was free.

‘Ah there you are, Miss Cooper, I have been looking everywhere. Really it is most unsuitable that you walk alone on the main deck, the sailors are everywhere, my dear, and there are lots of unscrupulous men in the steerage compartment who think nothing of the Captain’s ruling, and wander very much in this direction. I think it will be best if you walk only with me. And although the niceties of fashion are not my field exactly – rather my wife’s or my sister’s – a hat, I think, Miss Cooper, rather than a shawl. We of all people must keep up appearances so that standards are maintained aboard ship. With so many of the lower classes travelling with us it is up to us to at all times preserve the rules of etiquette and propriety against the vulgarity and impertinence that could easily overrun us. I think you will find the Captain feels the same.’

Harriet had turned and regarded the long nose and piercing eye of Mr Burlington Brown of Starlight Gas Lighting. From his nose droplets of water hung and the wind stung his eyes as it did hers, pulled at his frock coat.

‘I am most grateful for your attention,’ said Harriet, ‘but I do not wish to trouble you and your family unduly—’

‘No, no, no,’ protested the Chairman, endeavouring to pat her shoulder.

‘And sometimes, the – the seasickness, you know, I needed to hurry here, there was no time to call for you.’

‘Ah, ah, quite, quite, but look at the time, my dear Harriet (if I might call you that),’ and indeed as he spoke the ship’s bell rang. ‘Time to dress for dinner; the Captain appreciates this also, even though, of course, we understand that you are still – as it were – in mourning.’ And he ventured a further fatherly hand upon her shoulder and then ventured it down to her arm, and propelled her back towards her cabin.

She looked back, at the sea and the sky and the echo of birds.

*   *   *

A shipboard dinner, Harriet saw, was a large affair. Onion and pork broth; roasted fresh pork (one of the travelling pigs had already been slaughtered, the Captain proudly told her, because last night it had broken its leg, that’s how fresh it was) served together with roasted onions and parsnips and much prune and plum compote and many potatoes, plus cold mutton and cabbage and large bowls of gravy. There were several extremely elaborate fruit pies decorated with iced pastries, and jugs of custard, and a big cheeseboard. There was glacéed fruit, and wine and beer, and port for the gentlemen. Although it was mid-afternoon lamps had been lit, as only dim light came in from the small windows.

Harriet was given pride of place at the Captain’s side and made a great fuss of now that she had appeared at last. As there were only fifteen cabin passengers she met them all: smiled and bowed; saw gentlemen and ladies; saw a cross-looking girl of about twelve kick her younger brother when she thought nobody was looking; met Miss Eunice, the rather pinched sister of Mr Burlington Brown; admired a baby belonging to a magistrate’s wife which was displayed just before prayers. Stewards bowed and removed plates for all the world as if they were dining in London (but the sound of the wind in the sails above them, and the occasional sliding of cutlery, and the way liquid moved in the glasses reminded them they were not). The Captain spoke of the joys of their destination: this was his fifth journey; of the chance of making many fortunes; of the necessity of keeping a tight rein on the natives. A bridge school was suggested for the long days ahead, and the possibility of a few amateur dramatics; Harriet was asked if she would honour them with something on the ship’s piano this evening after tea had been served.

She enquired how many other passengers were aboard the
Amaryllis;
found that over one hundred men and women and children were in the steerage quarters; that they had different food (‘A lot better than they had in their previous lives, I’ll be bound,’ said Mr Burlington Brown knowledgeably). She was told that single men and women (with married couples and children between) were housed at either end of the steerage space at the bottom of the ship, with a matron in charge of the single women; how they must all be in bed by ten o’clock when the ship’s bell rang. (‘Otherwise they’d be careering around the ship in the darkness getting up to no good, I’ll be bound,’ Mr Burlington Brown contributed.) And they told Harriet how water everywhere must be treasured.

‘Even you, my dear Miss Cooper, must learn to catch the rainwater: water shortage is the most vexatious problem, salt baths are the rule rather than the exception, and water with meals is a luxury.’ Harriet stared at the odd-coloured water in carafes on the table which she had declined to drink.

‘Much safer to catch rainwater,’ said a young man whose name was Mr Aloysius Porter, ‘for I expect the water we took on board comes from the Thames.’

His friend Mr Nicholas Tennyson (‘no relation to the poet I’m afraid’) agreed: ‘It would seem foolish to bring our London bacteria to the South Pacific.’ But the gentlemen were turning to the port and the ladies were retiring to one end of the dining saloon, only Miss Eunice Burlington Brown hung on Mr Porter’s every word and nodded. Harriet, as she moved with the ladies, said to Mr Porter and Mr Tennyson that she was looking forward to catching water out of the sky.

*   *   *

‘I say, Captain Stark,’ said the doctor in the evening after tea, ‘the Bay of Biscay is treating us kindly, I’ve heard a story or two about its treacherous gales.’

‘Indeed,’ said the Captain, and he turned courteously to the ladies to explain. ‘The Bay of Biscay has a fearsome reputation, especially at this time of year. Ships on their way to the Antipodes have been wrecked before even they sighted Spain, but we seem, so far, to be having a brisk but extraordinarily smooth passage, all things considered. We have been running before the wind and have covered many miles today. Perhaps your presence, my dear Miss Cooper, is bringing us luck, and all such journeys as ours need luck.’ Stewards had lighted more lamps; outside the sun had set on the horizon.

‘Miss Cooper.’ The Captain spoke again. ‘Perhaps you will play something for us now as this evening is your first excursion among us, even though we left Gravesend a week ago.’ The rebuke was soft, the request was firm: it was Harriet’s duty to entertain them prettily. Dutifully, Harriet went to the piano. A little sigh seemed to go round the dining saloon: so beautiful, so pale, so dressed in black.

For a moment Harriet sat quite still before the small upright instrument. She had not touched a piano for so long, it seemed: it was another life when she lived at Rusholme and played in the evenings before Eddie and Augusta branched out into ‘When Other Lips’. When Mary was alive. And she quickly bowed her head and played one of Chopin’s études. The piano did not move with the roll of the ship, it was nailed to the floor, but no doubt dampness got in to the strings inside and it was perhaps not quite in tune. But there was something about the way the pale young woman played: the dining saloon was silent and the notes hung in the air although all the time the wind in the sails was there above them in the Bay of Biscay and the
Amaryllis
ploughed through the waves. The last notes died away and Harriet stood abruptly.

‘Goodnight,’ she said.

And like Cinderella she was suddenly gone, even before the gentlemen could rise and accompany her with one of the swinging lanterns that hung over the round wooden table.

Later the murmur of voices outside her window mixed with the rushing sound of the sea as some of the gentlemen endeavoured to take a somewhat blustery evening stroll with their cigars. For a long time she heard the other cabin doors opening and closing, people using buckets or chamber pots or walking to the water closet beside the cabins, walking back again, coughing, settling. She sat motionless on her thin bed, her candle burnt down. She counted again the sovereigns and placed them carefully in one of the boxes, remembering how she had seen her Uncle William and Cousin John and Edward shut themselves in the study and speak about finance, a subject never discussed with women: she could only hope that English money was currency at her destination. She had over three hundred sovereigns: she believed it was a great deal of money. Finally she took out her pen and her ink and Walter’s pale cream notebook and put them on Mary’s little table by the cabin window. She sat on the end of the bed for a seat and picked up the pen.