Steal My Sunshine (12 page)

‘That's unreal, Essie.' Chloe's rollie had burned out between her fingers, and she lit it again. ‘So what was it like? The ship. Must've been immense.'

Essie laughs. ‘Yes, it was. Immense. It wasn't as grand as some of them. I shared a room with one other – an awful old crone called Mrs Weldon, who smelled of mothballs. But some were four or even ten to a cabin. Women and men separate. My parents were wealthy, you see, so even though they were sending me away there was no question of lowering their standards. I suppose that sounds quite funny, doesn't it?

‘There were dining rooms, waiters, of course, a writing room, a library, a lounge, games on deck. The food wasn't bad – by the looks of some people, they thought it was The Ritz. Some of them probably hadn't seen that sort of spread since the war.

‘I can't remember everything – oxtail soup, there was far too much of that. Roasts, pies, rice pudding rolls – those I liked. I managed to avoid the children's dining room. In fact, I suppose when I look back, that journey was my last taste of luxury.' She laughed again. ‘Perhaps I should have been paying more attention.'

‘What did you do all that time?' said Chloe. ‘Six weeks – I'd go insane.'

I waited for Essie to tell Chloe off for being a child of the modern age who can't go five minutes without her iPod, but instead she said, ‘I did go insane, Chloe. It was the most bored I'd ever been. Apart from the first night, when it seemed like the whole ship was in mourning, everyone around me seemed giddy with the whole experience. They celebrated at every opportunity – it drove me mad. I didn't think I had anything to celebrate. They made costumes on St Patrick's Day and had singsongs, held table-tennis competitions and parties . . . I was in a bubble. I'd never felt more alone.

‘The first few days I explored that ship – went anywhere and everywhere unless one of the crew told me I couldn't. I think I was looking for James. Oh dear, what a fool.

‘And what was so strange, and I was well aware of it, was this feeling that I was changing on that voyage. There was something different about me, and it took up all my attention trying to work it out. I'd lie awake at night, listening to the waves lapping against the sides, the incessant creaking of the ship working to take us further and further away from home, and I started to feel that I wasn't myself any more. I thought it was something to do with becoming Australian, can you believe it?' Essie laughed but there were tears in her eyes. Her face grew serious again.

‘A baby died on the way, that I do remember. It was dysentery. They buried him at sea. There were a few days after that when people around me seemed more solemn, but they soon picked up again. Mrs Weldon took it upon herself to enforce the chores we'd been given. Unofficially, the men were responsible for law and order, and the women had to keep things clean. Mrs Weldon kept telling me that if I didn't do my share, the Australian officials wouldn't let me off the ship. She said she'd put me on the blacklist. The old witch didn't understand that I didn't want to get off – not in Australia, anyway.

‘I hated them all. I hated my mother so much I thought it would burn my insides.'

‘I get it,' said Chloe. ‘My mum left me, too.'

Essie looked like she'd heard but didn't reply. ‘I thought that was the worst thing that could happen to me,' she said. ‘But I was wrong.'

There was a shift in the room, like looking out of the window and seeing that while you've been busy the sun's gone down.

‘There's more, isn't there?' I said.

‘Oh yes,' Essie said. ‘We're just at the beginning.'

 

We're almost there.

Home feels more than a million miles away and I've never felt so tired. I've seen more in the last few weeks than in the whole of my life put together. It feels as if everyone else has been living life on this ship and I've just been watching them, and yet I'm the one who can hardly stay awake from one hour to the next. My head is crammed full of images of the journey.

In Port Said, where small boats swarmed towards the ship to form a floating market, people yelled out, ‘How much?' and goods were hauled up in baskets. In the rough waves of the Indian Ocean, I watched children laugh with delight as their dinner plates would slide from one end of the table to the other, while below deck, fights were breaking out between groups of men because some had started to say that there were too many Maltese on board.

Children playing in the lifeboats, families lining up to have their photographs taken, women hanging out the washing as if they were standing in their backyards. They all have this desire to make every new spot their home. This ship could never be my home.

At various stops we've been allowed to send postcards home. I've sent only two – one to Georgie to cheer him up and one to Sara, at school. I had to write in code but I know she'll understand. I was worried about using up too much money so I didn't send more.

I'm nearly drifting off to sleep again when everyone starts yelling about the bridge. Mrs Weldon blocks the porthole with her fat head and yelps like a little dog. She's overcome with happiness – something about the bridge turning to gold under the sun. I don't care. I don't want to see it.

‘Coming up on deck?' she says, red with excitement, pressing powder onto her nose. She adjusts her transport number on the lapel of her jacket. We've all been instructed to wear them.

‘I don't think so.'

‘But we've made it,' she says, her round eyes like marbles pushed into a doughy face. I've watched this woman sleep and eat and talk incessantly for weeks on end, and suddenly I realise I never have to look at her again. It's enough to make me get up.

‘Might as well then,' I say. She's overjoyed and holds my hand all the way. For once she's useful to have around because she barges her way through the crowds and takes me with her to the front. She's become a kind of matron on board, carrying out inspections and counselling homesick women. I never understood why she was so popular, but it doesn't matter now.

I stand under her arm as she waves frantically. ‘Who are you waving to?' I say.

‘No one! Everyone!' she says, tears rolling down her face. ‘Isn't it beautiful?'

I spot a dark-haired man further down the deck, who looks the way I feel; his sad face stands out from the rest of the crowd. The sun is warm on my face, trying to coax me into the moment, but I won't let it.

 

Aunt Caro cries when she sees me. ‘Darling, darling Essie,' she says, holding me. ‘You're here now.'

She's younger than Mother and far less sure of herself. Only a few minutes in I remember her fondness for stating the obvious. I'm here now. It must have been such a difficult journey. It will feel strange being in a new place. I've grown since she last saw me.

The more naive and weak Caro seems, the more certain I am that I can convince her to send me back home as soon as possible. It's as if I'm waking up. The ship will be a bad dream. I won't stay. I'll be the model niece, a reformed character. Aunt Caro will send me back, believing she's turned me around in every way and pulled me out of moral danger with her perfect, ivory-smooth hands.

Aunt Caro doesn't stop talking during the entire train journey from Sydney to Brisbane. She points out every tree, farm, house – every single thing in sight. She even points out a herd of cows and I have to break it to her gently that I've seen cows before.

She's giddy like the ship people. I remember Mother once saying, ‘Poor Caro lives on her nerves'. I think it's fair to say that coming to the other side of the world has only made her worse. She tells me about deadly spiders and ‘natives' as if they're equally terrifying, but then she checks herself and leans forward to place her hand on my knee. ‘But everyone can be saved, Essie. Everyone. Remember that.'

At that moment I start crying and I let Aunt Caro think whatever she likes about the reason why. She looks at me like half the job of saving my wretched soul is already done. The real reason I'm crying is because we're moving further away from the dock. I feel literally turned upside down and I don't even know which direction home is any more.

It's dark when we arrive at Aunt Caro's. There's a blissful night breeze and for the first time that day I don't feel stinking hot. Aunt Caro lets out her little tinkle of a laugh every time I mention the heat. ‘This is nothing, darling,' she takes great joy in telling me, several times.

She leads us through a neat little gate and up a path surrounded on either side by lavender bushes.

‘What's that noise?' I say. ‘Frogs or something?'

‘Cicadas!' she sings. I don't ask what they are, but my skin feels like it's crawling and I realise I know nothing about this place. The air smells like warm mint and the black sky is so vast I feel like we're in space.

Now we're at the front door of an austere-looking brick bungalow, painted white. It looks like it could be down a country lane back home, but it's here surrounded by tall trees with long silvery leaves that almost glow in the darkness.

Aunt Caro goes inside and stands in the hallway, waiting for me. She looks around the place wistfully as if she's been gone a year. ‘This is home!' she says, and turns to me. ‘Your home now, too. I want you to feel that, Essie.'

‘Thank you, Aunt.' Never. But I have no choice other than to step inside.

She shows me around the place. Our bedrooms are side by side. There's a kitchen, a bathroom, a living room and another room she calls her study. It's all very clean and basic.

‘Don't tell your mother,' she says.

‘Tell her what?'

‘That I've got no dining room.'

‘Oh. No, I won't, Aunt Caro.' She really is a bag of nerves.

Despite the look of the place, Caro still acts like she's back in the family home in Holland Park and we sit down to tea. I can't stomach it and just want to go to sleep on dry land; my head is still dancing around like it was when I was on the waves. Aunt Caro says that's normal.

I watch the clock above her fireplace as she tells me in great detail about the work she's doing here – five days a week at the local school, as well as Sunday School and all number of church activities on Saturdays. I nod, pretending to admire her, when really I'm just grateful for all the time I'll have without her twittering on at me – time I'll spend doing everything I can to get myself back to London.

For the next few days I can't keep anything down and Aunt Caro is beside herself, thinking I've caught something on the ship.

‘They've quarantined a few, you know. I was worried yours would be one of them, but it was cleared. What if they missed something? Oh. There's been smallpox on other boats. Did you feel ill on the boat, Essie? Perhaps I should call your mother.' She flaps around the room and I try to picture Mother coming to fetch me. Or Pop – wouldn't Pop come if I was at death's door?

‘I think you should,' I say. I pray that I'll worsen or at least stay this ill so that there's no doubt in anyone's mind that Pop should come.

When she returns, I know something is wrong. Her face is different as if she's under a spell. ‘I'm sorry,' she says.

‘What is it? Is it Pop? Georgie? What's happened?'

‘No, it's not them. Essie, I can't save you.'

‘Can't? Why? Of course you can, Aunt Caro. You said everyone could be saved.'

‘Not alone. I can't do it.'

‘What do you mean? Are my parents coming for me? I don't mind going back on my own – I've done it once. I'm ready to go right now if you want me to.'

‘Your mother says there's to be no argument. I'm to take you to the Sisters.'

‘What sisters? What do you mean? I've just got here. Aunt Caro!'

‘They'll take care of you and . . .' She stops and can't look at me. She pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and plugs it into her lips as she cries. Then she straightens herself up again and pats her hair. ‘The baby . . .'