The Fever Tree (6 page)

A
t some point in the night Frances must have drifted asleep. When she woke up the ship was rolling. A glass was sliding backwards and forwards on the floor between the berths. There was a rancid smell in the cabin, which she couldn’t place until she heard a choking retch from the bunk above. She whispered into the dark, and Mariella’s voice came back to her in a wet cough, asking for a bowl. Frances allowed herself a few seconds then forced herself up, clinging on to the bunks in the dark as their cabin heaved from side to side. She lit a candle and in the flickering light found a bowl under the bunk. She passed it up to Mariella, who grasped it just in time, and Frances saw the sheen of sweat on her face, and her fingers, clogged with vomit, as she lurched over it.

She pulled her wool shawl over her shoulders and felt her way along the narrow corridor to the bathroom: a box cubicle with running water and a small zinc bath. Anne was inside, kneeling on the linoleum floor, vomiting into the toilet bowl. Frances stepped around her and came back to the cabin with wet cloths, cleaned Mariella’s face and hands, and didn’t resist when the weight of her head rolled into her shoulder. The girl’s skin was damp and she moaned softly, clouding Frances’s neck with a sour stink. By the time she had pulled the wet sheet off the mattress and changed her nightdress, a dirty glimmer of light was showing at the porthole. Anne came back and crawled into her bunk. She was a better patient than Mariella, administering to herself and never breathing a word of complaint.

Only once, the next day, when Mariella asked her to read aloud in the cabin as the ship listed from one side to the other, did Frances feel nausea creeping over her. It pulled at her stomach and made her head spin. She went up on deck and stood for a few moments under the squalling rain until it passed. The captain caught sight of her and asked her name.

“Well, Miss Irvine,” he said jovially, “at least someone’s on their feet. Though you’ll not have much company at dinner tonight.” He was right, and she had eaten in the fore saloon alone except for a group of English soldiers who came in late. The lantern on the beam above swung a murky light over the tables, and the soldiers didn’t notice her sitting in the corner. They were young but toughened round the edges, like fresh leather left out in the rain, and they had spent the last few days contriving ways to flirt with the girls in the second cabin, somehow getting their hands on fresh flowers, which they delivered up to them in baskets of eggs. Frances was interested to hear them talking alone. Their words were coarse and unfiltered by a sense of propriety. Two of them peeled apples, and a bottle passed between them. One soldier was telling how he had bought a native girl from a friend in return for a bottle of Cape brandy.

“Best deal I ever made. There weren’t many flies on this one, I tell you.”

The bottle clinked against a glass as it was pushed along the table. “They’re a darned sight easier to keep than white women.”

“What about those kaffirs they hung for being spies? They sent them up a tree with ropes round their necks, and told them to hang themselves.”

“Where was that?”

“In the Transvaal. One of them wouldn’t jump, so they shot at his buttocks. The nigger caught hold of a branch as he came down and kept hold of it until they shot his hands free.”

One of the soldiers grunted. “It’s not right.”

“No, but it’d make a man laugh.”

Frances had seen an African serving in a hotel in London, but he had worn clothes and spoken English. She couldn’t imagine a country peopled by men dressed in skins.

•   •   •

W
HEN
SHE
WENT
UP
on deck the following morning, the light was dazzling. A high wind scuppered what was left of the clouds, rattling the clinches and filling the sails. Waves tore towards them, six or seven feet high. They reared up over the deck, but the ship always rose on the swell, staying just ahead of them, and they rolled on in a torrent of foam. A fine spray was thrown off the sea and she licked the salt off her lips and laughed. This was a wild, empty place, and it filled her with joy after the stuffy heat and wrenching sickness of the cabin. There were few people. She caught sight of the boy with the birdcage sitting cross-legged with his back to the cargo hatch. He held on to the cage with one hand, encouraging the bird to sit on his grubby finger. There was no sign of the stern woman who had chivied him on the platform. “Where is your mother?” she asked.

The boy was concentrating intently on the bird, which hopped from bar to bar, bobbing his head at the boy’s finger. “My aunt? She’s not feeling well.”

“Are your parents in South Africa?”

He shook his head. The bird held on to the bars with one claw and with the other took a delicate step onto his forefinger, testing it for stability. Satisfied, it shuffled along until both claws were wrapped around his skin. The boy looked up at Frances and grinned. “I knew she’d do it eventually.”

“Have you had her long?”

“Not very. My mother asked me to look after her, but my aunt says she won’t survive the cold nights.”

“Can’t you take her below deck?”

He shook his head. “She’s not allowed. She chatters too much.”

Frances let her hand rest on the boy’s head. It was like ruffling a pile of downy feathers. After a moment she produced a sugar lump from her jacket pocket and gave it to him. He smiled, and she said, “Do you have a name?”

“Gilbert.”

“Well, Gilbert, can you tell me what the worst vegetable is to have on board a ship?”

“Miss?”

“It’s a riddle,” she said, smiling. “You’ll have to work it out.” She left him puzzling over it, and walked towards the stern, stopping at the chalked line that was drawn each morning across the deck. Beyond was the area reserved exclusively for first-class passengers. Two sailors were up on the mizzenmast trying to reef a sail which flapped viciously out of their hands. She heard shouts, broken by the wind, and saw a group of men—three sailors and a passenger in shirtsleeves—gathered about twenty feet from where she was standing, leaning out over the water. They had rigged the gangplank, and a group of white birds circled them, dipping and diving.

A steward walked past and saw her watching. “Baited a fish. Mr. Westbrook’s been fighting it for gone an hour.”

She was curious to see William Westbrook in this new guise of fisherman, and she watched for half an hour under flickering sunlight, until they had hauled the fish on deck. It was at least six feet long, and broad. A swordfish, she realized, admiring the long, pointed spear. Its body was slack and its mouth gaped slightly, revealing a rusted iron hook the size of her forearm. The sailors grinned and slapped Mr. Westbrook on the back. His sleeves were rolled up, his collar was open, and his hair fell in damp curls to his neck. He handed the rod to one of the crew then squatted down to wash his hands in a bucket of water. His shirt, drenched with sweat and seawater, clung to his chest. He glanced along the ship to where she was standing. She saw him register her, and felt caught out. Her ears were full of the roar of the sea. He watched her, his mouth opening into a wide smile. She looked away, embarrassed. The sailors had strung up the fish with a hook through its tail. Its gills heaved open and shut, the thick white flesh breaking rhythmically to reveal a rib of scarlet gashes. Two crew boys winched it up and another dug a knife into its belly. Blood gulped out onto deck. Frances, revolted by the sight of the fish turned inside out, put a hand to her mouth and swallowed. When she glanced back at Mr. Westbrook, he was leaning against the ship’s wheel talking to the captain, laughing and shaking his hand.

Mr. Westbrook appeared beside her a moment later, one hand supporting himself on the rail, the other shielding his eyes from the sun. “You think I’m a brute?”

She denied it, but he said, “You can be honest, Miss Irvine.”

So she nodded and said, “It seems a mean thing to do.”

“And yet, I don’t think you would think so if you had been the one reeling it in. It’s a wonderful thing to fight a fish that size. The dark body thrashing beneath the surface, the two of you locked in battle.” He laughed. “You look doubtful.”

“I am.”

“Your sympathy is misplaced. The sea looks fairly benign today, but she can be a mean mistress. You can be sure she’ll have her sport with us when a storm blows up.”

Frances smiled. “All the more reason to placate her.”

“Ha!” He laughed. “Yes, perhaps you’re right. But I’ve never been very good at placating.”

He had the same poised confidence she had noticed in him before, but it was softened now by a boyish enthusiasm. He looked pleased with himself after his catch, balancing on the balls of his feet, squinting into the sun, one hand thrust into his pocket. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he had launched himself up the ladder to the crow’s nest just for the fun of it. He smiled, rueful.

“Now those . . .” He swept his hand to the stern of the ship, where sailors were throwing line out for the group of diving birds. They had baited one of them. The boatswain was drawing it in, flapping frantically, until he had a grasp on its wings. Then he tore the hook from its stretched and gulping throat. “That’s nothing but petty cruelty.”

“I’m afraid I don’t see the difference.”

“Have you ever tried eating a gull?”

She couldn’t stop herself from smiling, and he grinned back. His enthusiasm was contagious, and for the first time since her father’s death she was full of a complete, effortless joy.

“I would like to have painted it,” she said, suddenly.

“Painted what?”

“Your swordfish,” she said.

“Well, why don’t you?” he asked, looking pleased.

She laughed. “I couldn’t. Not when the sea’s like this.”

He leant his elbows back against the railings, and they were both silent for a few seconds, looking across the deck at the sails and the rolling blue of sea and sky. She felt entirely content in his company, just as she had been with her father. They were similar, these men, both large in stature and full of charisma. They both had an easy charm and an infectious ability to enjoy life. She suspected that Mr. Westbrook, like her father, was indifferent to the petty sermonizing of Society. And Frances was sure that there was more to him than met the eye. He could be serious as well as amusing, and he had talked passionately enough about her father’s charity to convince her that he had high ideals.

“Miss, Miss, I have it!” Gilbert threw himself breathlessly in front of them.

Frances crouched down. “Whisper it.”

He leant into her ear. After a second she nodded.

“Whisper what?” Mr. Westbrook asked.

Gilbert broke into a delighted smile. “Sir, what is the worst vegetable to have on board a ship?”

They both looked at Mr. Westbrook as he thought about it. He paused a long moment, then groaned. “A leek?” Gilbert gave a cry of delight, and Mr. Westbrook shook his head, smiling. “Did you think that one up, Miss Irvine?”

She laughed, and Gilbert tugged at her sleeve. “Another one. Give us another one!”

•   •   •

L
ATER
THAT
AFTERNOON
, she found a note on her bed. It was an invitation to dinner:
Since Mr. Nettleton and I appear to be the only members of the saloon well enough to dine, I think you must consider it your duty to enliven our company. W.W.

Frances looked at the quick, confident writing, and gave a private smile. Her hands were sweating slightly, and her fingers left a damp print on the fine linen paper. On an impulse, she smelt it, and caught the faint muskiness of sandalwood; then put it down, embarrassed. Mr. Westbrook was being kind. He pitied her traveling alone and wanted to make her feel included—which was admirable, but it was just this quality of easy-handed generosity which made her like him more than she had reason to. The letter was a clever concoction of intuition and lightheartedness, designed to put her at her ease. He had looked at her standing on deck in her simple cotton dress and seen through the prickliness of her pride. He had captured in an instant her grief, her loneliness, and her reluctance to go to South Africa. And now he seemed to be telling her, subtly, that he understood these things. Her throat tightened, and to her surprise she found herself brushing away tears. His kindness made her vulnerable, and though she wanted to talk to him again, she couldn’t bear to be the object of his pity, or Mrs. Nettleton’s scorn, so she wrote out a short letter declining the invitation.

T
he following day the weather improved to placid gray skies and calm seas. The ship, so quiet before that you might have been forgiven for believing she carried only a handful of passengers, began to hum with activity, like a beehive struck to life by a stone. As time went on, a routine of sorts established itself. Breakfast at eight, a slow meandering walk along the deck, lunch followed by backgammon—there was a tournament in process—dinner at four, and tea at seven: sardines and boiled eggs.

Frances experienced a sense of freedom and independence on the
Cambrian
that was entirely new to her. In England she had rarely, if ever, been allowed out of the house without her father or Lotta accompanying her. Now she explored the ship on her own and talked to whomever she wished. Sister Mary-Joseph showed little interest in the girls as long as they didn’t disturb her. She was reading romances disguised between the covers of her Bible, Mariella had discovered, and she had been forced to emigrate to escape a scandal in England. It made sense. Why else would someone agree to chaperone a group of women out to the colonies for the little money the charity could afford to pay?

The second-class saloon was home to a diverse collection of humanity. The girls traveling with the Female Middle Class Emigration Society all had positions at the Cape as governesses, teachers, or nurses, but there were other figures Frances grew to know by sight. A genteel woman with red eyes and a hacking cough was headed for the sanatoriums near Cape Town. The air in South Africa was second to none for those suffering from pulmonary complaints. Two Swedish cousins with white-blond hair and sunburnt foreheads talked diamond buying to anyone who would listen, and a brisk, efficient-looking young man plied a good trade taking passengers’ portraits with a camera.

There was a trader from Natal with an overgrown, grizzled beard and cheeks crumpled into thick folds by the sun. He laid out his skins every day, hoping to sell the last of his wares on the trip back to South Africa. He had various cat skins, zebra skins, and the head of a lion, which must have been badly preserved because it smelt of putrefying meat, and Mariella swore she had seen a maggot wriggling between its nostrils. He sold ostrich feathers, intricately carved ivory ornaments, and jackals’ tails bound into fly swats. In the evenings he sat on deck with a lantern, and men and women gathered round to listen to him telling tales about fever swamps, elephant hunts, and mountains infested with leopard.

The Reverend Ames was the only member of the clergy on board. He couldn’t have been older than twenty with a smooth, pale face that was prone to sudden, acute blotching when he was excited and hands that fluttered around his face when he talked. He was on his way to establish a mission in East Africa, and he led a zealous service on deck every other day and on Sundays gave the sacrament.

A thick-set, heavy-boned Italian man with a drooping mustache and watery eyes kept a dancing bear and a monkey. He said he was emigrating for a better market. No one wanted a dancing bear in London anymore, and Frances could see why. The monkey, dressed up in military uniform, spent the day riding on her master’s shoulders, but the bear looked seasick and unhappy. She wore a muzzle and chain, and when her master cried “Round and round again,” she would tumble head over heels across the deck and then waddle her hips around his stick in an awkward dance. Occasionally the monkey scampered onto the bear’s shoulders and tweaked her ears. If the bear swiped at him, the Italian thrashed her with his stick until she bellowed.

The third-class passengers looked drab and poor. Everyone knew they were crammed into steerage too many to a berth, and on hot days the stench of sewage drifted across the ship and caught in the back of your throat. The women spent all day mending, scolding, and sluicing their children down with buckets of seawater to prevent lice. There was a group of shaft sinkers from a coal mine in Lancashire, a toughlooking set being shipped out to work the new machinery which had been exported to South Africa. They whittled tools for the fields and swapped diamond-smuggling stories, which were passed along the deck: the lady who took a carriage out of Kimberley nonchalantly clutching a bunch of grapes, a diamond concealed in each lobe of fruit; or the carpenter who managed to smuggle £200,000 worth of stones in the handle of his chisel, only to be caught in Southampton by a private detective.

Mariella stood with a group of girls every afternoon near the chalked line that marked the first-class deck. They propped themselves up on one another’s shoulders, leaning against the railings, laughing and nudging one another as they watched the first-class passengers. They noted the names of politicians, their wives, Lords and Ladies, filing away gossip and turning over every aspect of every woman’s dress. Frances was drawn to the camaraderie of the girls, but when Mariella beckoned to her to join them she stayed away, not wanting to be seen gawping by the Nettletons or Mr. Westbrook.

She rose early in the mornings and took her coffee above board. There were few passengers around at this hour, and she enjoyed watching the sailors scrubbing the decks, shaking out the sails, and polishing the metal until it shone. It was cool, the air was fresh, and the deck was uncluttered by the canvas chairs which sprang up after breakfast. George Fairley was always there before her, greedily inhaling his first cigarette of the day. He was in his forties, small and compact, with a soft flop of tawny hair and an anxious habit of chewing the side of his nails until they bled.

He liked to talk, and Frances enjoyed listening, grateful not to have to tell her own story. He had been a small landowner but had lost everything in the depression. He talked to her about the rivers on his farm in Devon, shearing sheep in a snowstorm, and his hatred for the new cities with their vast factories pumping black smoke into the horizon. Frances hadn’t realized that the steamships importing wheat and refrigerated meat from the Americas had done such damage to English farmers.

“I ended up in Sheffield, working for a steelworks making parts for the very steamships which had done me in!” George laughed wryly and rubbed at the stubble that bristled across his face. “Which gave me the idea to emigrate.”

He hoped to find diamonds and make his fortune—or, if not a fortune, then enough money to live comfortably. Frances was captivated by his tales of the diamond fields. The Vaal River was a utopia in the desert, George said. Huge boulders clung to the banks of a swirling mass of green water. When you rolled them away a clutch of diamonds glistened beneath, each as fat and round as a plover’s egg. George had an uncle who had spent two weeks digging on the Vaal. Long enough to make his fortune.

They stood one morning, watching a troop of swallows which had been following the ship since they set out. The birds, lightning quick, swooped and dipped in a shifting cloud, skimming the surface of the water, never left behind for a moment.

William Westbrook crossed the deck in front of them, and George called out, “Sir, could I detain you a moment?”

“Certainly.” Mr. Westbrook stopped, nodding at Frances but not greeting her. She wondered if he was cross that she had declined his invitation to dinner.

“I have heard you’re a man who knows about diamonds?” George asked expectantly.

“I know a little.”

“I have contacts on the Vaal River. Do you have any advice?”

“What did you do before?”

“I was a farmer.”

“Well, then, I advise you to go back home and farm.”

George stared at him for a long second. “What do you mean?”

“The Vaal is no good. The sands have run dry.”

“Dry?” George Fairley was incredulous.

“They haven’t been digging there for years. The camps have moved to New Rush, Kimberley, though you’ll not have much luck there. It’s a thousand pounds a claim, and even if you could afford it, the earth is hard as rock.”

George was silent, taking this in, and Frances saw how awful it was for him to hear it.

“How hard? Can a man dig it?”

“You’d have to work like a mule, and even then . . .”

“But how do most men do it? I’ve heard with a bit of luck you can get rich.”

“In the old days, yes. Now the claims are being consolidated it’s too expensive. You need a team of natives, guards to make sure they don’t steal, influence on the mining board to stop them squeezing you out, and, of course, men you trust to sort the good stuff from the bad.”

“There must be other sites?”

“And you think there aren’t men who have looked? Men who know the ground better than you?” William Westbrook must have been ten years his junior, just a boy to George, but it was clear he had more experience, and it was hard to doubt he was speaking the truth. His voice was respectful but firm. “I’ll be honest, Sir, since it might save you. I’ve seen men broken by prospecting. They end up worse than kaffirs, crawling round in the bottom of the mines without even a shirt on their backs.”

George Fairley looked at him, speechless. “But even supposing you are right, I can’t go home. There is nothing for me there.”

Mr. Westbrook shrugged with a touch of impatience. “You’d be better off in an English workhouse.”

“I don’t believe you, Sir,” George said, his voice cold with anger. He flicked his cigarette overboard. “You’d rather not have the competition, is that it? You should be ashamed of yourself.” He turned on his heel and left them both standing there.

“Why did you do that?” Frances demanded.

Mr. Westbrook looked at her coolly from under heavy-lidded eyes, and she realized she had never seen him serious before. His jaw had locked and his face was impenetrable. All humor had drained from his face. “I told him the truth.”

“Did you have to make it so bleak?” He didn’t answer, so she said, “He has put everything into this venture.”

His nostrils flared, and his eyes were blank when he turned to look at her. “And do you care so very much about him?”

The question was ridiculous. “He needed hope, Mr. Westbrook, not someone trampling over his future.”

“I told him the truth, Miss Irvine. If it sounded harsh, it is because it is an unpleasant truth to have to deliver. South Africa can be a difficult place to make a living. A man of his age would be better off in England, with his family.”

He was gone before she had the chance to apologize. It wasn’t until she thought it over later that she realized she had been naive. It was quite possible he was right, and she wished she hadn’t disagreed with him when she hadn’t the slightest idea what she was talking about.