The Star of the Sea (26 page)

A
N ACCOUNT OF THE MORNING OF THE
TWELFTH
DAY OF THE
V
OYAGE; IN WHICH AN
I
NTERVIEW BETWEEN
L
ORD
K
INGSCOURT AND
J
ONATHAN
M
ERRIDITH
IS CONVEYED; ALL THE WHILE
MULVEY
IS DRAWING
CLOSER TO HIS
TERRIBLE PURPOSE.

33°01′
W
; 50°05′
N
— 7.45
A.M
. —

–
Stammer again and I shall whip you again. The choice is entirely your own to make. What is the definition of a gentle breeze?

Grinning snarl of pianokeys candleflame mirrored in black gloss lowly burning twisting translating from gold to pearl dancing with cast-back brother pianoblack reflection; a copy. Fake? Skeleton of the magnificent and once common
Megaloceros Hibernicus
Irish Elk hollowed sockets of antlers gryphonwings.

–
Mmwone in which a w-well-conditioned man-of-w-war, under all s-sail and clean full, mmwould go in s-smooth w-water from one to two knots, s-s-sir
.

The magnificent and once common Daniel Hareton Erard O’Connell grooves cold as a graven raven. Was it? Mama?

–
Correct David. And a fresh gale
.

–
Mmmmwone in which the same sh-ship could kak-carry close hauled, sir
.

– A hurricane? Quickly. And do NOT stammer.

– Please Papa. I’m afraid, Papa.

The magnificent jawbone in common hand, firebelch spew from skullish mouth. Piano lid slams. Thunder of fists inside it. The candleflame putters and hissingly dies.

David Merridith flailed awake, his face drizzled with rivulets of sweat, the pulse in his jugular driving like a steam-pump.

‘Papa. Papa. I’m afraid. Wake up.’

His son and heir was shaking him hard by the arm. Milkwhite sailor suit and crumpled nightcap. Mouth messily bloodened with the juice of a plum. That body in the Lowerlock. Deathboy.

Merridith elbowed up painfully, stupefied with sleep, his mouth sourly slickened by last night’s tobacco. The clock on his locker read ten to eight. A glass of water had overturned alongside it, spilling its contents over the pages of a novel.

No pity.

Grind their entrails.

The wind wuthered and the ship rolled. Somewhere outside, a bell was clanging. Merridith had the strange sensation of being underground. He stretched his chin, massaged his aching neck. He felt as though his brain had come loose from its moorings.

The cabin smelt warmly of his offspring’s hair, his lineny personal odour mingled with the reek of carbolic. Laura was never done washing his hair. Fearful of lice. Maggots in the fur.

‘How is my little captain?’

‘Woke up early.’

‘You wet in the bed?’

The boy shook his head seriously and wiped his nose.

‘Good man,’ said Merridith. ‘See, I told you it would stop.’

‘Had a nightmare, though. Men were coming.’

‘Well it’s all right now. Are you all right?’

He nodded glumly. ‘Maze I come in the tent?’

‘Just for a minute, mind. And speak properly.’

The child clambered up on to the bunk and stuck his head beneath the sheets. He gave his father’s forearm a soft, fond bite. Merridith chuckled wearily and pushed him away. Soon he was gnawing the pillow like a puppy, giving strangled little yaps and barks as he chewed.

‘What are you doing, you bloodified lunatic?’

‘Hunting for rats.’

‘No rats here, my Captain.’

‘Why not?’

‘Too expensive for them, I expect.’

‘Bobby saw one yesterday, the size of a wolfhound. Running up a rope where the poor people are.’

‘Don’t call them that, Jons.’

‘That’s what they are, isn’t it?’

‘I have told you before, Jonathan, don’t bloody
call
them that.’

His tone was sharper than he’d meant it to be. The child gave a confused and long-suffering look at the injustice of being punished for truthfulness. He was right to feel affronted; Merridith knew it. Of course they were poor, and euphemism wouldn’t change that. Probably nothing would change it now.

Lately he’d been snapping at the boys and at Laura. The strain, he supposed. But it wasn’t fair. He reached out and tousled his son’s already slovenly fringe.

‘What did he do with it?’

‘With what?’

‘The rat, you cluck.’

‘Shot it and gobbled it on a piece of crunchy toast.’

The child flung himself on his back and performed a boisterous yawn. The ceiling of the cabin was low enough for him to be able to touch it with his feet. For a while he did that and not much else; stretching and pedalling like an upside-down unicyclist. Then he flopped down again heavily and pulled a pouting scowl.

‘I am bored. When shall we be in America?’

‘Couple of weeks.’

‘That’s not soon. That’s forever.’

‘Isn’t.’

‘Is.’

‘Ain’t.’

‘Is. And anyway Mummy says
ain’t
is common.’

Merridith said nothing. He was feeling very thirsty.

‘Is that right, Pops?’

‘Everything any squaw says is always right. Now come on, old scout, let’s have a doze.’

The boy lay reluctantly down on his side and Merridith curled behind him, feeling his animal warmth. Sleep rolled up gently: a wave on wet sand. Spindrift frothing in the salted air. A picture of his mother was trying to form; he saw her as though from a very great distance, walking Spiddal beach with her back turned away
from him. Pausing to throw a bundle into the shallows. Gulls ascended from the seaweed and cheeped around her. And now she was drifting the orchard in spring; a confetti of apple blossom decorating her hair. A catch in his chest made him stir and drove her away. He could feel the boy’s heartbeat coming faintly through the sheet. From somewhere on the deck he heard the shouting of a sailor.

‘Pops?’

‘Mmn?’

‘Bobs has been telling fibs again.’

‘It isn’t cricket to peach on your brother, old thing. A shag’s brother is his greatest chum in the world.’

‘He says a man came into his cabin early yesterday morning.’

‘Good.’

‘He had a big knife like a hunter’s. And a funny sort of black mask on his face. With holes cut away for his eyes and his mouth. He made a funny clomping sound when he walked.’

‘I expect he had horns and a long tail also.’

The child chuckled ludicrously. ‘
Nooh
, Pops.’

‘You shall have to instruct Bobs to look more closely next time, shan’t you. All good monsters have horns and a tail.’

‘He says he woke up and the man was standing there looking down at him. All in black. He said – “what room does your daddo sleep in?’”

‘That was polite of him. What did Bobs say?’

‘Said he didn’t know, but he’d better cut along or he’d biff him one in the head. Then he heard someone coming and bolted out the window, see.’

‘Good for him. Now go to sleep.’

‘Can’t.’

‘Then scuttle down to Mary and she’ll make it all better.’

‘May I have some stinking poxlate for breakfast?’

‘Speak properly, Jons. Don’t be a bloody ninny.’

The child uttered a groan of mock impatience, as though dealing with an imbecile who had approached him for alms; the kind of sigh Merridith had often heard Laura give in Athens when contending with a waiter who pretended not to know any English. ‘Drinking chocolate, Pops. May I have some of
that
?’

‘If Mary says so, you can have a double whiskey.’

His son dropped to the boards and picked up a shirt. He placed it over his head and flapped his arms: a ghost of boyhood in a temperance illustration. When his father didn’t react, he clicked his tongue and tossed the shirt on the back of an armchair.

‘Pops?’

‘What?’

‘Did you feel sad when you were small? That you didn’t have a brother?’

He looked at his boy. His beautiful guilelessness. It reminded him of how Laura used to look around the time that they met.

‘Well I did have, old thing. In a way, that is. Before the old stork brought me along he’d brought another little tyke. My big bruv, he would have been.’

‘What was his name?’

‘Actually it was David. Like my own name, you see.’

The boy gave a soft laugh at the strangeness of the revelation.

‘Yes,’ his father chuckled. ‘It is rather funny, isn’t it?’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Well he got sick for a bit and went up to live in Heaven.’

‘He got sick?’

The child knew he was lying, Merridith could see it. There was a piercing quality in his gaze sometimes: a look that was hard to ignore.

‘Your mama feels you’re a little too young to know.’

‘I shan’t tell her, Pops. Dob’s honour I shan’t.’

‘Well there was an accident in the house. Very sad thing. My grandpapa was supposed to be sort of standing sentry one day. Only the little chap escaped, you see. Got at the fire.’

‘He was burned?’

‘Yes, my love. I’m afraid he was.’

‘Was he sad? Your grandpapa?’

‘He was very sad, yes. My papa and mama too.’

‘Were you?’

‘Well, I wasn’t here, then, of course. But I was sad later. Surrounded by bloody girls, you see. You know what they’re like. Beastly old things. Would have been fun to have another chap about. Kick a bit of ball with. Things like that.’

His son approached awkwardly and kissed his forehead.

‘I am sorry, Pops.’

He ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘I am, too.’

‘I shall draw a picture of him later. So you can see him in Heaven.’

‘Good scout.’

‘Are you crying, Pops?’

‘No, no. Bloody eyelash, that’s all.’

‘I shall be your brother if you like.’

Merridith kissed his son’s grubby hand. ‘I should like that very much. Now pop down to Mary.’

‘May I get in her bed?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because.’

‘Why not because?’

‘Because because.’

‘Pops?’

‘What?’

‘Do ladies make water sitting down?’

‘Ask your mother. Now bugger along.’

He watched his son slouch unwillingly from the cabin. It was too late now to go back to sleep. An ache of pity clutched at his heart. His boys had inherited his own propensity for night terrors. That might well be all they would inherit.

Rising from his bunk Merridith put on a dressing gown and padded gloomily to the shuttered porthole, opening it creakily on to the day. The vast sky was the colour of day-old gruel, but streaked with violet and orange clouds; some pallid and ragged and tinged with black, others mottled like ancient leopardskin. Down on the maindeck, two Negro sailors were huddled up to a brazier and sharing a mug. The Maharajah was walking near the forecastle with his butler. That poor little fellow with the wooden foot was hobbling up and down, slapping his arms against himself to keep warm. A kind of solace, the normality of everything. Odd, the things from which we take our consolations.

He found himself wondering about the two sailors. They looked so close; like brothers perhaps. There were other varieties of
closeness between men; Merridith knew that and knew it from experience. Once or twice in his fleeting spell in the navy he had been propositioned by other officers, but had always declined. It wasn’t that he found the idea disgusting. At Oxford he had experimented, contentedly and not infrequently. Rather that he’d have found it disgusting with any of the ones who asked.

He left his cabin and walked down the steel-cold passageway, pausing to knock on his wife’s door. No answer came. He knocked a second time. He tried the handle but the door was locked. The smell of fresh bread drifted from the galley like an undeserved blessing. He was badly in need of one of his injections.

Yesterday afternoon she had come to his cabin and told him her decision. Her mind was made up. At first he had laughed, certain she was joking; experimenting with some new tactic to make the rat squirm harder. No, she had said, she had thought about it carefully. She had considered the whole picture. She wanted a divorce.