We Float Upon a Painted Sea (24 page)

As he stood upright with the glass bowl in his hand, Bull caught his foot on the wind turbine cable he had scheduled for repair the following day. He slumped forward and shunted towards the edge of the boat. He lost his grip on the gunnels and fell into the canal, bashing his head against the hull as he went. For an instant his world went dark. Visions flashed and swirled across his mind. He felt his body sink and curiously, he was overcome with a brief sensation of weightlessness and serenity. Then, like waking from a dream, Bull’s consciousness switched back on. He felt a stabbing pain in his lungs and panic rise from within.

Instinctively, he kicked back his feet but he was overcome by an unbearable feeling of suffocation. His acute stress response was to thrash his arms and legs until his head was above water. Finally, he felt the wind and rain on his face and this time he welcomed the stinging sensation on his skin. He stretched out his hands and felt the rough stone of the tow path, and then peculiarly a large hand hauling him out of the water. He rolled over on his back and gazed at the two masked faces in the dark. He could hear them breathe but they made no other sounds. The wound on his head throbbed and trickles of blood slithered into his mouth. He tried to speak to the figures standing over him, but his mind went void and then he passed out.

When Bull regained consciousness he was back in the narrowboat, lying on the living room sofa. It was still dark but he could hear no sound of wind or rain from outside. His head throbbed like it had never throbbed before and it was worse when he touched it. He felt disorientated and then a wave of dejection washed over him. He sat up and noticed a framed picture of Saffron lying on the coffee table. He reached out and ran his fingers down the image of her face. He was overcome with grief. Memories of her jumped out at him from every corner of the room. 

He held the frame aloft and looked into her familiar dark eyes. To his horror, the eyes in the photograph blinked. Bull dropped the photograph, span off the sofa and sprang backwards into the galley. He didn’t stop back pedalling until his back crashed against the cupboard. Cooking utensils rained down on him. His breathing shortened. Finally, he gathered up enough courage to creep towards the photo-frame and using a metal kitchen tong, he turned it over. The photograph of Saffron appeared normal.

Bull retreated to the toilet and examined his head injury in the bathroom mirror by candle light. Curiously, the blood from the cut had congealed and scabbed over, almost healed and his customary bruise from repeatedly banging his head on the companionway, had disappeared. For a while, he stared at his face in the mirror, checking for unseen wounds. He stiffened. Behind the shoulder of his own reflection there stood another image of himself. He dropped the candle and the flame snuffed out as it hit the floor. Bull groped around the floor for the candle. When he found it, he lit it again with shaking hands and stared towards where he saw the apparition. Nothing. He fumbled in the dark towards his bedroom. He put on a housecoat, slumped on his bed and stared briefly at the ceiling, listening to the sound of the narrowboat creaking in the still waters of the canal. The storm was over. No howling wind, or pounding rain, or glass bowl rolling around on the deck outside. Within seconds he was asleep.

Bull woke to the sound of knocking. When he opened the hatch door he was greeted by Saffron’s mother. She critically viewed the man who was wearing her daughter’s silk housecoat.

“You must be Faerrleah. I’m here to arrange collecting Saffron’s things. Have I caught you at a bad time?”

“No, sorry, come in. Good to finally meet you, Mrs Wilton.”
Bull looked down at his robes and offered a painful smile.

“It’s not how it looks Mrs Wilton.”

“Faerrleah, what you do in the privacy of your home is your concern. However, if you want my opinion, the kimono style isn’t really you. That housecoat belonged to Saffron’s grandmother. She was much bigger than Saffron.” Saffron’s mother looked at the bump on Bull’s head. She said,

“What happened to your head Faerrleah? Are you alright?”

“I keep banging it on the companionway, it's nothing to worry about.” Saffron’s Mother went into the Galley and put the kettle on. Bull followed her. She said,

“I wanted to phone but with the network service still being down, that wasn’t possible. It was a frightful storm Faerrleah? There’s been damage to property, we lost thousands of trees, and the power lines were cut. The country has come to a complete standstill. There are lots of roads still closed off, even the TEV network, and they’re only running a skeleton train service, but you would hardly notice the difference in that respect.” Bull nodded in agreement. He stood in uncomfortable silence, waiting for the opportunity to arrive where he could take his leave, and change out of Saffron’s silk housecoat. Saffron’s mother made a pot of tea while Bull went to shower and change into his own clothes.

When he returned, Mrs Wilton was picking up Saffron’s belongings from the floor and piling them into a box. She turned to Bull, looking at the empty bottle of vodka and said,

“Did you have a little party on your own last night?”

“A cold shiver came over him. It occurred to him that if he didn’t sit down, he might faint in front of his guest. He replied,

“You could say that Mrs Wilton.”

“You don’t look too good Faerrleah, are you sure you aren’t coming down with something? Go and sit down and I’ll get you that tea.”

They sat drinking tea. They talked about the riots, the national curfew and Bull’s plans to move to St Kilda. He would be leaving for Ullapool the following week, and taking a ferry from there rather than flying. He knew if Saffron was here, she would approve. Mrs Wilton said she would send a van to collect her daughter’s belongings to take to her new house in the countryside. Bull mentioned his father being made homeless after the river Irwell burst its banks, and described the devastation to his home town. He was cheered by their conversation but saddened that he hadn’t had the chance to meet her before his split with Saffron. As she left, she put both hands on Bull’s shoulders and kissed him on the cheek.

“It was lovely meeting you at last. I’m sure everything will work out for you in the end. You just need to find your path first. Promise me you will look after yourself, Faerrleah. It’s a changing world out there. To be honest, I don’t recognise it anymore. You seem like a nice young man, if only slightly troubled.”

“I promise. I’m not really myself today Mrs Wilton, I was just caught out with last night’s storm.” Mrs Wilton let out a short laugh and glanced at the mess behind Bull.

“You’ll have to do better than that Faerrleah. The storm passed two days ago.” Bull stood at the companionway, a perplexing expression etched across his face.

Later that day, Bull went for a walk. The streets were filled with army and emergency service personnel. He passed a street 3D projection reporting stories concerning the storm and the rising death toll across the British Isles. Bull strode by, ignoring the news reader’s emergency donations plea. He entered the quiet of Kelvin walkway and after traversing several fallen trees, arrived at Kelvin Park to find it was closed to the public. He looked towards the wolf sanctuary where a large oak tree had been blown over and lay on top of the cage, crushing it. There were no signs of the wolves. His head was caught in a double envelopment of what felt like a raging hangover and concussion. He found a shop that was open, bought a bottle of malt whisky and returned to the narrowboat.

The following week, Bull looked at the bare interior of the narrowboat. He didn't recognise it in its current state. He allowed himself one memory, recalling a childish game he and Saffron would play when they would take turns throwing Saffron’s large floppy hat, trying to land it on each other’s head. He smiled thinly, remembering the laughter it would cause. He shut the hatch door for the last time and locked it behind him. He rubbed the wooden companionway with the palm of his hand, expecting to feel the curved groove where he and previous owners had bumped his head so many times. There was nothing.

Bull walked along the moorings in the late summer warmth and away from the narrowboat. His arms were weighted down by his two large suitcases, acting like anchors, dragging him back as he shuffled along. He refused to look behind, aware that every step was tearing him away from the past and from the aura of Saffron. When he noticed the cab pulling up and waiting on the bridge above the canal, his knees wobbled. As though snatched by a serpents jaw, he was overcome with a feeling of emptiness and loss. A protracted ascent of the stairs brought him face to face with the taxi driver who helped him load his baggage into the taxi. He confirmed that she was taking him to Ullapool.

He promised himself that he wouldn’t look back, but Bull couldn’t resist one last farewell. As he turned his head to face the canal, a slow trickle of tears glided down his sullen face. He stepped out of the taxi and walked towards the bridge wall and gripped the metal balustrades. He looked down at the narrowboat. The taxi driver appeared at his shoulder, attempting to persuade Bull to return to the cab. Her sage counsel failed. She resorted to peeling Bull’s fingers one by one from the railings then she bundled him into the back of the cab. Finally, she thought. When she looked in her mirror she found the back seat empty again. Bull was back on the bridge, sobbing uncontrollably. After a few maternal embraces, the driver motioned him back into the cab and applied the child locks to the cabin door.

Chapter 18: An imperfect storm

In the morning, Andrew unzipped the aperture and gazed out. The world outside was Stygian. All around him, a grey malevolent sea, a bloated entity, thought Andrew, lifting the raft up and down as it inhaled and exhaled. The wind whipped across the surface of the ocean teasing up white tipped waves which broke against the damaged raft with a new malice. The squalled sheets of rain drove relentlessly against the plastic canopy, filling the interior of the raft with a rambunctious crackling sound. Andrew’s face was showered with cold sea spray and his guts heaved. He yearned for a hot cup of peppermint tea to settle his stomach or eve and warm his insides, but instead he relieved his bowels while Bull slept. It had occurred to Andrew that he hadn’t noticed Bull relieving himself since arriving on the raft. He must be waiting for me to fall asleep, he thought. Andrew wondered if the man, underneath all the brashness, he was indeed quite shy. He dismissed this notion, and cautiously sniffed the stagnant water he was sitting in. He flicked an accusing gaze towards Bull’s sleeping form. Curiously, his companion had taken a
do not disturb
sign, from the suitcase, and hung it round his neck.

Later, when Bull woke, they finished the last of the prunes and the bannock cake for breakfast. Andrew fished for most of the day, while Bull concerned himself with Malcolm’s deteriorating condition. He took the tubing from the rain catch and inserted it into the unconscious man’s oesophagus, forcing water into his body.  On closer inspection, Bull discovered that the gash on his head was showing signs of infection. There were also several other wounds to his ribcage and back which had previously gone undetected. Bull went back to bailing the raft and re-inflating the damaged pontoon. He complained to Andrew, stating,

“Malcolm’s wound is looking nasty. It’s getting septic. He needs antibiotics. He should be in a hospital by now, on a drip or whatever.”  Andrew’s head was protruding out of the raft, hovering over the surface of the sea, like a gull waiting for the tell tale signs of its prey. He turned and appeared frustrated. He barked,

“We all desperately need rescued or none of us will survive long.”

“I think Malcolm’s need is more urgent.”

“We have more immediate concerns. Has it escaped your attention that there’s some massive swells out there and some ugly dark clouds boiling above our heads. There’s a storm coming.” Bull pushed his head out of the aperture to take a look at the horizon. Finally, he said,

“We’ll get rescued. It’s just a matter of time. We have to wait it out.”

Andrew sighed,

“There hasn’t been sight of land or a ship since we were capsized. We can’t go on floating, adrift like this forever. These rafts were built for short term survival. With the damage you have inflicted on it, I’d say we have a slim chance of surviving a storm.”

“We’ve survived this long so we must be doing something right. We have water and if we keep bailing and pumping air back into the raft, there’s no reason for us to sink. We’re cushdy.”

“
Cushdy
? I don’t call this
cushdy,
what ever that means. My skin is chaffing in this salt water, I have blisters on my backside and I’m famished. We had the last of the prunes and bannock cake for breakfast.”

“Hey, I bumped my head when the Andrea Starlight sunk, so we’re all suffering to varying degrees,” Bull reached round to the back of his head, but the swelling had gone, “but there’s no denying we’re famished. My point is, we’re still alive and that’s what matters. We need to keep believing that we can survive or what’s the point. We might as well end it now.”