The Main Cages (25 page)

Anna was on a bench across from the Hoopers. The sunlight came through the eyeholes in the awning and dots of it shifted across the folds of her jacket. The engine rumbled away below, shaking the deck and leaving a faint smell of fuel in the air.

Parson Hooper stood to go to the bar. ‘Can I bring you anything?’ he asked Anna.

‘Some lemonade? Thank you.’

Mrs Hooper moved her knees as her husband passed and said to Anna, ‘You’re down at Ferryman’s, isn’t that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And – don’t tell me –’ She put a finger to her lips. ‘You’re from Finland?’

‘Russia.’

‘Russia! Of course!’ She sounded excited to discover Anna was Russian, but could think of nothing to say. ‘And you’re married to the painter, Maurice Abraham.’

Parson Hooper returned with a tray of lemonade and some cake and handed them round.

‘She’s from Russia, dear. Mrs Abraham’s from Russia!’

Parson Hooper sat down, tugging up the knees of his trousers. ‘Goodness!’

‘We lived in India once,’ said Mrs Hooper.

The
Golden Sands
had left the shelter of Porth Bay and was just beginning to sway on her keel. Astern, through the open back of the deckhouse, the village had shrunk to a nugget of white buildings. Kidda Head glowed green in the late sun, its flanks spotted with sheep.

The passengers had fallen quiet. Parson Hooper looked at those around him. ‘I trust everyone enjoyed themselves today?’

He leaned forward to a girl with pigtails. ‘What about you, young lady? Did you like the boat races?’

The girl turned and buried her face in her mother’s coat.

On the other side of the boat, Lady Rafferty was holding court. She was seated on the front bench and in the open area before her stood Bryant and Sir Basil and some of the Petrel skippers.

‘What I can’t understand,’ she said to Lawrence Rose, ‘is why you let Major Cameron through.’

‘Mr Rose is a gentleman,’ explained Cameron.

‘He was on starboard,’ explained Rose. ‘It was his water. Rule of the road.’

‘Well,’ said Lady Rafferty, ‘it didn’t do either of you any good. And it didn’t do me any good. Now, Mr Bryant,’ she
continued, ‘I was thinking. What do you think about a boat for the hotel?’

‘We have this –’

‘No, this is a workhorse. I’m talking about one of those yachts, a thoroughbred.’

‘But you hate boats, my dear!’ pointed out Sir Basil.

‘I wouldn’t have to get in it. We could let guests race it or watch. It would be an elegant advertisement for the hotel.’

‘Well –’

‘Penpraze can build one in three months.’ Lawrence Rose was always keen to swell the class.

‘What could we call her?’ asked Sir Basil.

‘
Golden Sands II
?’ suggested Lady Rafferty.

‘No good.’ Rose shook his head. ‘It must be a virtue.’

‘What about
Thrift,
’ quipped Cameron.

‘Yes, Mr Bryant,’ smiled Lady Rafferty. ‘How about building a boat and calling it
Thrift
?’

Mr Bryant frowned. ‘I’m not sure. We’d have to look at the cost.’

Lady Rafferty threw back her head and laughed.

The wind had freshened. The seas were now pushing up under the
Golden Sands,
raising her stern and then dropping it as each one went through, rolling on to the west. As the boat began to pitch, so those people standing made their way back to their seats. Bryant was embarrassed and he left Lady Rafferty and the Petrel skippers and went and sat with Mrs Bryant. Cameron and Rose sauntered over and leaned against the bar.

A woman in a yellow hat turned to look for her child; he had found the boy with the model yacht. ‘Come back, Edgar!’

The awning lifted and the Master made his way aft. He had been up alone in the bows. He returned to the benches and, sitting down, propped both hands on his cane. Beside him was the elderly couple from Wales. They had taken the
same seat as in the morning and were still smiling their benign smiles, still hand in hand.

On the bench in front of them were the three cavalry officers. Travers and Lee sat impassively; Birkin was asleep between them. His head was lolling against his chest. As the boat’s pitch increased, he opened his eyes and tried to focus. ‘Urf!’ he said, then fell asleep. When he woke again, he said, ‘Bit squiffy.’

‘Come on, old chap!’ Travers and Lee took him forward, out under the flaps of the awning to the starboard companionway. Birkin sat down heavily on the box beneath the lifeboat.

‘Well done, Birks!’

‘Good show, Birks!’

Birkin’s head lolled forward. ‘Be’s right as rain,’ he slurred. ‘Don’ mine me, jussa bit –’

The boat lurched hard to starboard and Birkin lurched with it. He stumbled against the rail opposite, where he checked his fall and retched over the side. After a few minutes he turned and stood a little straighter. ‘All gone.’

‘Good man!’ said Lee.

As they went back the
Golden Sands
dropped into a deep trough. They all grabbed at the rail and Birkin tripped, banging his toe against the fuel cap.

‘Ow! Ow-ow!’ He hopped around, gave the cap a kick and shouted, ‘You bastard!’

‘Come on, Birks!’ Travers took his arm and led him back into the shelter of the deckhouse.

Loosened, the cap began to work its way off. It was soon swinging free on its short brass chain.

The
Golden Sands
was pitching heavily now. In the blue light of late afternoon, the seas were breaking all around her. Anna tightened her headscarf and left the Hoopers and the benches and went astern, out into the open.

A gull skimmed over the ridge of a coming wave, dived
into the trough, then arced up high to hover above the ensign.

She gazed out beyond it, at the endless plain of water. The waves were running behind and beside the boat, and as far as she could see they were rising into white crests that flashed above the blue and grew thicker towards the horizon. She thrilled at the sight of such seas and the vagrant motion of the boat beneath her. When the first wave slammed against the transom, she stepped back and watched a lazy column of spray rise above her, break into a thousand shards and splash into the boat.

‘Careful, Miss!’ In the corner of the stern were Red and Joseph Stephens in their ‘Grace’ and ‘Charity’ sweaters. They were smoking.

She continued to watch the shifting seascape before her. Two, three, four waves back she could see the approach of the larger ones. She followed them as they came in, as the stern dropped into the valley before them and the dark scarp of water rose to block out the land behind and she felt the surge as it picked up the stern and drove them forward. Sometimes the waves were steeper and broke with a slow swish of white water on either side, and she learned to predict them, to move to right or left as the spray rose. Then came one that thumped hard against the stern and she could do nothing. A great curtain of water flopped down and soaked her. She took off her headscarf and shook out her hair – but her jacket and dress were wet through.

‘Best be in out of there!’ Red Stephens threw his cigarette over the side. He came over, peeling off his sweater and handing it to her.

‘No, no.’

‘Go on, take it – I have this.’ Beneath his ‘Grace’ jersey he wore another, a much older one, embroidered with the name ‘Ratona’.

When the first sea fell into the boat, it sent a slosh of water forward which buffed against the bench uprights. It washed over the shoes of those too slow to raise their feet. Several people cried out as they felt it cool against their legs.

Ralph Cameron predicted it. He stepped forward and picked Lady Rafferty’s handbag from the deck, calmly suggesting to those around her that they might like to raise their feet a few inches.

Only Birkin did not flinch. His head was now lodged against Lee’s shoulder. The water submerged his shoes and ran on against the bar and out beneath the awning. There it flicked at the fuel cap and slopped in through its mouth.

In the wheelhouse the Garretts saw the water. They saw it run forward into the bow, before falling back as the stern dropped again. It drained out through the scuppers. Tacker went astern and Bryant called him over.

‘Well?’

‘Twenty minutes, sir! Another twenty minutes and we’ll be in under the point – be calm as a duckpond in there!’

Tacker looked up at the rows of heads around him. Then he bent down again. ‘Tell you what, sir.’

‘What, Tacker?’

‘I’ll sing ’em a song.’

Bryant frowned.

‘Always like a song, sir. Keeps their minds off it.’

‘All right.’

Tacker went and stood before the bar. He cleared his throat and looked out at them all. Over their heads he could the sea beyond. He began:

Now what do you think I made of a red herring’s head?

I made so fine an oven as ever baked bread.

He was right. One by one the passengers turned to watch him and when Charlie Treneer joined him and their combined
voices filled the space and rose above the sound of the engine, they were completely absorbed. The Stephenses came forward and joined in, and although Cameron and Rose had moved off to one side, they knew the chorus:

Hark! Hark! How dost thou lie?

And so do you as well as I.

Why hast thou not told me so?

So I did long ago.

Well, well and well, well.

And thinks I to myself:

It’s a jolly herring!

Lady Rafferty did not mind the singing but she did mind the motion. With each drop of the boat her gorge rose, and with the fumes from the engine she said to herself: ‘Dear God, don’t let me be sick, not here, not in public’ She closed her eyes and tried to focus on the lines of the song.

Now what do you think I made of a red herring’s ribs?

I made forty cow-stalls and forty ox-cribs …

Anna had returned to her seat beside the Hoopers. She held her orange jacket over her arm. Across her chest were the white sewn-on letters ‘Grace’. She had rolled up the sleeves but the jersey hung heavy on her shoulders and reached down to her thighs. It smelt of pipe-smoke and work. She sat watching the singing for a while, then turned to look back out to sea.

Now what do you think I made of a red herring’s tail?

I made as fine a ship as ever did sail …

Another wave rose above the stern-rail and fell on board. The water flooded forward. Tacker, still singing, raised his hands, and the passengers lifted their feet. He saw it gush
around his own boots and over those of Charlie Treneer and the Stephenses beside him. He left them to carry on singing and ducked out beneath the awning.

As he climbed down through the hatch the engine’s
thut-thut
cut out the sound of singing. His feet landed in water. He flicked on the light and saw a pool of it swilling about in the bilges. He turned on the pump. It was still ten, fifteen minutes to Pendhu and they were shipping water at quite a rate. But the pump was a new one, and with each roll of the boat the pool shrank. When he heard the pump sucking on air, he turned it off.

He was halfway up the ladder when he heard a knock in the engine. He paused on the rung, listening. Nothing – it was smooth again. It continued at its steady throb. He came back into the deckhouse and rejoined the singing. By now all those unaffected by the ship’s rolling had picked up on the final chorus, and Tacker stood at the front and waved his hands like a conductor.

Why hast thou not told me so?

So I did long ago.

Well, well and well, well.

And thinks I to my-self:

It’s … a … jol-ly … HE-RRR-ING!

‘Bravo!’ said Parson Hooper, clapping.

‘Bravo!’ The Master tapped his cane on the deck.

‘Bravo!’ said the Dane Soren.

The Welsh couple smiled.

Charlie Treneer took off his cap and bowed to the audience and Tacker bowed too and the clapping grew louder before subsiding.

The wind plucked at the deckhouse’s scalloped awning. A loose block banged against the rail. Apart from the sound of the sea, there was silence.

Silence.

I
n London, they were cutting the last half-acre. Ivor Dawkins, forearms red and sunburnt, shirt half-open to the wind, had been bouncing in the seat of the binder for hours, for days, for weeks. But here was the last half-acre of the last field, and the summer’s work was done.

For some time he had been watching the
Golden Sands.
He had seen her pull away from Porth quay, cross the harbour and enter the open sea. On the up-rows he saw London Terrace and the pipe-smoke clouds above it; on the down-rows the sea and the single yellow shape pitching across it.

Neither occupied him. Nothing occupied him very much except this last harvesting, this last oblong of oats. He watched the flails and the horses’ heads and listened to the whirring of the canvas belt as he reached the terrace and turned for the down-row. The yellow shape was a little further to the right. He wondered idly, who would get there first? Would he have cut the last stalk before the boat reached Pendhu? Or would
he still be sitting here in the binder’s seat as it came inside the rocks and disappeared round the headland?