Secret of the Sands (29 page)

The cousins are dozing now. They have said they will look after her camel. The family sleeps bunched together – a shamble of sleepy limbs. Zena decides that as she works her way south she will stop telling the story about her fictional master, for she might inadvertently find him. That night she sleeps propped up against the mud wall of a house and for the first time she does not wake before the rest of the group. The fishermen leave early, before the sun has risen.

‘Come, come,’ they say, shaking her by the shoulders.

Her eyes feel heavy, but she drags herself up into the darkness. Hurriedly, she pats the camel to say goodbye, but does not wake any of her travelling companions. As she makes for the shoreline with the others, the moon is still reflected on the choppy water. It is jumbled into uneven stripes of white light against the shifting, black surf.

‘Here,’ the boy who yesterday tied the rope gives her a folded net to carry aboard. ‘Like this,’ he shows her where to lay it and how to sit, squatting on the wooden deck until she is needed.

When they clear the harbour the men share bread, still warm. By the time the sun rises, a shimmering orb of honey light, the village is out of sight and all Zena can see are glittering waves in all directions. Aboard the
mashua
, the slaves were stowed the whole voyage. Now, she feels marooned by all the water and low set, with only a few strips of what looks like some kind of wooden frame and waxed hide bound by woven rope, she feels perilously close to the blue chasm that, though bright on the surface, is inky beneath it. Last night by the fire there were elaborate tales of sea snakes. The boy laughs at the expression on her face as she remembers this, and then they are both called to help cast the nets and it is easy to forget the grandeur of the vista or the menace of it, for, she discovers, a fisherman mostly looks down into the water no more than a few feet and does not raise his eyes more than a few feet above it.

‘All life beneath the surface here,’ the boy beams. ‘Good fish. Good fish.’ He culls a large one, thrashing about the deck. ‘This one will take too long to die otherwise,’ he explains. ‘You now,’ he offers.

Zena brandishes the cull, taking care not to get splashed too much. This feels like work. It feels good. Once the shoal is passed, the old man changes course.

‘Now we will head along the coast,’ he points, though the coast is out of sight. ‘We will meet other boats. Perhaps one of them will take you.’

Zena coils a rope and lays it in a spiral on the deck. The boy nods in appreciation, for she has done well for a beginner.

‘Never before?’ he checks.

There are no other occupations here, so it is strange to him that there might be someone who was not born to a life that involves an understanding of ropes, knots, nets and culls. It seems to him that even a toddler should know about wind directions and the trim of a sail, for in his village many of the children can swim proficiently before they have fully mastered walking.

She shakes her head. ‘Never. Inland always.’

‘Good,’ he nods as if she has told him a joke. ‘Good.’

Together they sit near the prow to watch the horizon. The movement of the boat is fast compared to travelling across the sands. With nervous fingers Zena reaches into the spray and feels the passing of the water.

‘No,’ one of the older men stops her. ‘Respect,’ he says simply.

Zena apologises. Of course. The water must be treated with deference.

‘Is it bottomless?’ she whispers to the boy.

He giggles and shakes his head. ‘Sand at the bottom. Like desert underneath,’ he whispers back.

Zena decides not to think about it. She raises her eyes and feels the breeze on her skin.
I wonder,
she ponders,
what might come my way next?

Chapter Forty-Two

John Murray is settled in his plush, canary drawing room and is in the humour for a day of amusement. There is little else to do today, Friday or not, as it is November and it is raining too heavily to consider his habitual ride in Hyde Park or even an outing to the club. The park this afternoon will be nothing but a morass of mud, for the weather has been frightful for over a week now. Murray’s desk is scattered with manuscripts though he has spent the last two days reading and discarding a very large pile of what has been sent to him. There seems to be rather a vogue at present for ladies writing poetry about the evils of slavery or worse –
novels
. Mr Murray, naturally, deplores the institution of slavery and is a hearty proponent of the emancipation, however, in all likelihood he deplores the poetry and novels of ladies who espouse The Cause far more. Even the measured script of their handwriting sets his teeth on edge, for manuscripts written by a man, in his opinion, have more character. After subjecting himself to over two dozen attempts at capturing the spirit of the age this morning alone, he’d be hard pressed to make a choice between banning slavery and banning well-meaning ladies with any pretensions to literary prowess.

The panes of the high sash windows rattle in the wind and Murray swears he can feel lightning in the air. The blanket of grey sky rolls very low over the whole city and Albemarle Street is so dim that people outside are carrying candle lamps in order to go about their business. He walks over to the fire and inserts the poker, stirring up the logs so that new flames lick and crackle in the elegantly fashioned grate. The prospect of clearing out more manuscripts is singularly unappealing. Surely the man will get here soon.

Directly on cue there is a brisk knock on the door and the butler enters.

‘The upholsterer is here, sir,’ he says the words as if they are a question.

Generally it is Mrs Murray who deals with such matters. Mr Murray has little interest in household affairs or even in his own attire. Mrs Murray, tiresome lady though her husband finds her, orders his waistcoats and has his shoes made, ensures that the trimmings of the drawing room cushions are renewed as need be and purchases household essentials from time to time at auction or, failing that, orders linen made, mattresses restuffed and curtains designed to her own specifications in a variety of workshops in the nearby streets.

‘Ah!’ Mr Murray says, clearly delighted. ‘Yes. Good. Send the fellow in.’

Mr Wellsted drips when he enters. He has taken off his sodden greatcoat and his hat but his shoes are soaking and drops of water balance precariously at the base of his ears. His nose is a very bright pink. Murray nods and offers his hand. The man may be wet but he is clearly neither impoverished nor intimidated at being summoned to a grand house on Albemarle Street on short notice. The cane he uses to help him walk is of good quality and plain design. Murray has arranged this meeting to test the lie of the land – to find out as much about James Raymond Wellsted as he can. After all, the chap is out of contact, it would seem, and Murray might as well find out what he can. He intends also to enjoy himself doing so. He sizes up Wellsted Snr in a flash. The man is not an embarrassment. It is a promising start.

‘There is some kind of an emergency, Mr Murray?’ Wellsted enquires as he shakes the publisher’s hand.

The question is the only dry thing about him.

‘Ah. Well. Yes. There is the matter of this chaise,’ Murray indicates the piece he means. It is a dalliance, nothing more. ‘It requires to be recovered. In some material suitable to the room. Yellow, you see.’

James Wellsted Senior casts an eye over the piece. This constitutes, even for a man who takes his business very seriously, not much in the way of an emergency. The chair is not worn at all, not even at the edges.

‘I see,’ he says, his eyes are still and they do not betray his annoyance at being called out for a job worth no more than a shilling or two in profit on a day such as this. ‘I can have some materials sent over for you to choose from and my man can pick up the chaise later today, if that will suit you.’

‘Oh, yes. Materials. Well, no need. I think I can trust your taste. The Marquis of Malvern tells me you have a good eye, sir.’

Wellsted does not blush at the compliment. ‘Certainly. I shall see to it,’ he nods and lingers only a moment before he makes a little bow and turns to take his leave.

This is not going the way Murray had expected. For no reason, he had thought the matter of real interest might simply arise. Now he forces the point before Mr Wellsted can leave the room.

‘I wonder, sir,’ Murray cuts in, ‘you have such an unusual name. I wonder if you might . . . No, it is foolish.’

He decided when he summoned the tradesman that he would not tell the man he knows exactly his connection to his point of genuine interest. He had intended this as a game, for Murray is a gaming man. But now he is here it is proving a difficult business with the fellow is not in the least conversational.

James Wellsted Snr turns. ‘From Kent, sir,’ he says, to oblige the gentleman. Not all Wellsted’s customers want to chat, but he is equal to the task if it is required. ‘I’m from Kent. Not an uncommon name in those parts, Wellsted, you see. Though my family have resided in London for some years now.’

He stares at the piles of papers stacked all over Murray’s desk. He came as soon as he was summoned on account of the address of his new client, rather than the man’s name. Being illiterate, he is not aware that the fellow with whom he is talking is the nation’s greatest publisher and he wonders if the gentleman is so untidy in all his business as he appears to be with his written matter. He has clearly been scribbling rather a lot if the heaped up mounds of papers are anything to judge by.

‘Ah, Kent. But that is not what I mean. I’m afraid . . .’ Murray smiles. ‘Thing is,’ he comes clean, ‘I wondered if you might be related to a Lieutenant Wellsted. James Wellsted. Of the Indian Navy?’

Wellsted Snr looks perplexed. James has been gone from London since he was a nipper – he has never come up in conversation since, or at least not outside the family.

‘That gentleman is my son,’ he says. ‘Do you know of him, sir? We have had no news for several months now.’

‘I do,’ Murray beams. ‘I do know of him, Mr Wellsted. Please, please won’t you sit with me? You are cold, are you not? I can have someone bring tea perhaps or better still some scalded brandy. Would you like some brandy, Mr Wellsted? Or whisky, perhaps? It is a weakness of mine. I have a Scottish grandfather and my dear, late father considered himself Scottish, despite the fact that he was born here in this house, a great many miles too far to the south to justify his claims. A toddy, sir?’

The upholsterer nods his greying head. He sits warily on a chair next to the fire while Murray rings the bell and makes arrangements. It feels eerily as if he is being
received
in a house on Albemarle Street. The sensation is extraordinary.

‘The thing is,’ Murray says, ‘that your son has sent me a rather interesting account of his travels. I intend to publish it.’

‘Publish?’ Wellsted mouths.

‘Why yes,’ Murray continues. ‘Fascinating account, you see. Of Socotra – a small island in the Indian Ocean.’

‘In a book?’

Murray ignores the question. ‘He is very talented your son, Mr Wellsted. Oh, I did hope there was a connection. And you see, when we can find your boy – well, I understand he is to be recalled for a while – the Geographical Society want him and there have been some enquiries from Members of the House that ministers are hoping he can help settle.’

‘The house?’ Wellsted repeats.

‘Yes, sir. His Majesty’s Parliament. The Palace of Westminster.’

The butler enters with a tray and places a fragrant toddy at Mr Wellsted’s side and then serves one to Murray. He is accustomed to Mr Murray entertaining unusual visitors from time to time, but the master has never taken sustenance with a tradesman before. He wryly wonders if he will shortly be serving dinner to Ned Spencer who delivers the household fish twice a week or perhaps ordering a carriage for Molly Rankin, the wife of the chimney sweep. Mr Wellsted, however, is far too shocked to notice the man’s offhand manner and for Murray, well, it only adds to his amusement.

‘James is coming home – and to all that?’

‘I hope so, sir. You have a very fine boy there.’

Wellsted’s hands are shaking so violently that he does not want to attempt to lift his glass, however, he is sorely in need of a drink.

‘Well I never,’ he says, staring longingly at the toddy, which is letting off a small cloud of steam. He breathes deeply. ‘Well I never. The boy did it! He did it! Think of that!’

‘Did what, sir?’ Murray enquires.

Wellsted steels himself. He is not sure what to say, but he’ll be damned now if James isn’t eligible for at least a lord’s daughter if not something slightly grander. There need be no tenuous connections for a man who will give evidence in Parliament and speak at the Geographical Society. He can surely take his pick of almost anyone.

‘He did his duty,’ the upholsterer grins. ‘The boy did his duty!’

Murray continues, ‘Well, certainly he did. They are having difficulty finding him, of course. These men of action – common problem. The high command in Bombay say he’s gone into the interior. The desert. He has been given permission by the sultan – the first of our men ever to get it. It’s quite an honour. I do hope he is notating everything. The admiralty will put him up when he comes home, of course. I believe there is a senior officer who has a house on the Edgware Road. You’ll be glad to see the boy, I expect.’

Wellsted nods. Yes, the house on Molyneux Street is nowhere near grand enough now. James must stay elsewhere and build his reputation when he returns to London. The old man finally manages to lift the toddy to his lips.

‘Cheers, sir,’ he says, taking a satisfying gulp. ‘This is wonderful news. Wonderful.’

‘Yes,’ Murray agrees. ‘Well, I want to hear more about your son, Mr Wellsted. I want to know all about him. He is, you see, a veritable rising star.’

Wellsted smacks his lips. ‘Always had promise. I have to say. The boy always had promise.’

It’s the first time in his life, he realises, that he feels simply, utterly proud. This news is beyond all expectation. Old Thomas was right about the child. Fancy that. Wellsted can hardly stop smiling. It’s been his life’s work, but finally they are there. The younger children will ride on the coattails of this success and everyone will go up a step or two. It is a wonderful feeling. The boy has done it!

‘Thank you, sir,’ he mouths. ‘Thank you for this welcome news.’

Murray can’t help but feel a glow seeing the old man so delighted. ‘Well now,’ he says, ‘I expect it has been a while since you have seen your son, so I am glad you mentioned that he does write from time to time. You see, I am very much looking forward to meeting James for myself, but until then, will you brief me?’

Mr Wellsted nods. ‘Anything, sir. Anything you’d like to know.’

Later, back at his desk, Murray clears a space. It has been a most entertaining afternoon. He pens a quick note to George, addressing it to the Geographical Society and also one to William Thornton Astell, who has taken up the matter in the Commons now that Townsend is dead. If Mr Wellsted Snr is anything to judge by, the family will not embarrass anyone. He rather liked the fellow, in fact. He seemed to have a sense of what was fitting. By all accounts, the boy has been dutiful in writing home. There has been no blinding flash of insight into the lieutenant’s character but nothing shocking that will put paid to their plans for him either. Murray rings for service and dispatches the letters to be delivered.

‘Send a boy,’ he instructs, for he does not trust the postal service in this weather.

Then, lastly, he picks up his quill once more and draws a fresh sheet of paper.

Murray folds and seals the paper carefully. He very much enjoyed the balance in Wellsted’s Socotra piece between the scientific and geographical detail and his interest in local customs. The boy clearly keeps his eyes open and does not judge the natives too harshly. It’s a common problem with Murray’s correspondents – that they make all kinds of horrid assumptions about the indigenous population that later prove unfounded. Often though there is nothing else to go on but the account he is sent. This Wellsted fellow has a knack and Murray feels inspired by his visit to Socotra. What the fellow will make of the desert, well, he can only hope. Murray wonders what they eat in the interior of the Arabian Peninsula. Goat, he decides. Not terribly appetising, but then the reading public loves that kind of thing – the more grisly the feast the better. Eyeballs and testicles, deep-fried. Tonight, as he understands it, his wife has organised some kind of game for dinner. A brace of partridge that were sent as a present from the estate of the Earl of Salisbury. The earl, it transpires, has written a book, which he will no doubt be asked to read and subsequently publish. Still, partridge is one of Murray’s favourite dishes, and he hopes Cook has had the foresight to make a Madeira gravy. He dusts the folded envelope and rings the bell.