Collector of Lost Things (6 page)

By morning, I had finally collapsed into a deep and dreamless sleep. I dressed for breakfast as thoughtful as a condemned man, then studied my reflection in the mirror above the washstand while I shaved. Sleeplessness, below my eyes, gave me a solemnity I don’t usually possess. I wondered how much I would be able to conceal, if asked a direct question. I have a tendency to freeze my expression when I am trying to avoid the truth. At that moment, my face was entirely readable—with every aspect of the previous years written on it. My eyes, ordinarily light and quick, stared back with a dull shine.
You thought you could escape, but you cannot.

Beyond my cabin door I heard the sounds of people gathering for breakfast. Bletchley’s piping tone, too loud and spirited for this hour, as he took his coffee, paced the room and asked questions with childlike persistence. I heard snatches of the topics he wished to discuss: the sciences of navigation, the azimuth compass, dead reckoning, the wisdoms of helmsmanship and the arrangement of sails. I sat on the edge of my bunk and whispered a prayer.
Please, Lord, allow me peace, let me face what is out there. Let me face the past with an unflinching eye.

‘Ah, Mr Saxby!’ Bletchley exclaimed, as I entered the saloon, as if my appearance were a great surprise. ‘At midday you and I shall be taking a sighting of the sun with the nautical sextant.’

‘Good,’ I managed, looking around anxiously for signs of her. ‘I shall look forward to it.’ But the only other person waiting for breakfast was Mr French, who was leaning against the sideboard, playing with the half-molten wax of a candle. He was in a world of his own, staring at the flame.

‘We shall use Mr French’s sextant,’ Bletchley continued, like a dog with a bone, ‘and the nearest recording to agree with his own reading shall receive a shilling.’

He grinned at me, open mouthed, expecting an answer. ‘A whole shilling?’ I asked.

‘Penny, then.’

‘Well, now you don’t sound so confident, Mr Bletchley,’ I said.

‘Then it will be two shillings,’ he replied, clapping his hands together in boyish delight.

As Simao brought the breakfast in from the pantry, I relaxed, with the certainty that Celeste would not be joining us. While Bletchley tucked lustily into his eggs, I took the opportunity to ask him where he was from.

‘Ely,’ he replied.

‘Oh. I had the assumption that you were from Norfolk.’

‘Why ever should you think that?’

‘I am not sure.’

‘My cousin used to live in Norfolk. Perhaps I mentioned that last night?’ He carried on eating his eggs, as if it was his last meal on earth. He dabbed his mouth after every forkful, with annoying affectation. Choosing his moment, he leant forward and whispered: ‘Her side of the family has all the
money
.’ He sat back in his chair, satisfied.

‘It seems peculiar for a lady to be travelling on a vessel bound for the Arctic.’

‘Does it? Seems entirely natural to me. They’re used to wearing fur—it’s their second skin.’ He appeared pleased with his observation. ‘Do you know East Anglia?’

‘Yes,’ I said, wary of what I should reveal. East Anglia is a gossiper’s paradise. ‘I grew up in Suffolk, and have travelled widely in Norfolk.’

‘A loathsome place,’ Bletchley replied quickly. ‘For the most part muddy, damp, and with an entirely bleak aspect. You can tell when you’ve shaken hands with a Norfolkman, because he has carrots growing under his fingernails. And he may try to plant potatoes in your pockets! As soon as I am back from this trip I shall be off to London.’ Bletchley turned to French: ‘What of you, sir—from which part of England did you crawl out?’

French glanced up at Bletchley. He waved his fork in an offhand gesture. ‘Oh, it is not important.’ He continued to regard the candle, ignoring us.

‘I believe I saw your cousin on deck last night?’ I said.

Bletchley frowned, curious. ‘Really? I am surprised. Perhaps you are mistaken.’

‘Well, perhaps so,’ I said, knowing he was unlikely to offer more. ‘It is easy to be mistaken.’

We never did perform the wager over the sighting of the sun. For at midday, a minor drama had overtaken the
Amethyst
. A greenfinch had been spotted, flitting between the ratlines of the mainmast and landing on the deck, where it looked startled and confused. Some of the men taunted it, knowing that the ship had taken it far out to sea beyond any possible chance of flying back to land. They tried to catch it by throwing sacking across the deck, but with each attempt, the finch flew up and landed in the rigging, or flew in a circle out to sea, before changing its course and returning to the ship, its only choice of a perch.

‘The men are excited,’ the captain said, watching the sport from the quarterdeck rail.

French was standing next to him. ‘They think it’s an omen,’ he added. ‘First they’re skittish about having a woman on board, now this. They really are an ignorant lot.’

‘An omen of what?’ I asked. French looked at me and raised his eyebrows, inscrutably. ‘Will they catch it?’

‘The finch is already as good as dead,’ he replied. ‘They’ll scare it off, then it will drown. It will fly away from the ship and lack the strength to catch up again.’

Sykes was listening to our exchange. ‘Martin will get it,’ he said, boasting. ‘He courses hares.’

Some of the men climbed the first rungs of the ratlines, preventing the bird from flying up, and I noticed the Herlihy brothers, acting in unison, cornering the finch towards the scuppers, where one of them managed to leap upon it, catching it below his cap.

‘What did I tell you,’ the captain remarked, satisfied. ‘Should’ve had a bet with you, Quinlan—you should have faith in the men.’ He called down to the deck: ‘Well done, Martin!’

‘A fast bird, sir,’ Martin, replied, smiling broadly.

As the men gathered to examine the greenfinch, I asked French whether I could sketch it, so that I might make a painting.

‘Good idea,’ he replied. To the men he shouted: ‘Bring that bird here.’

The men parted, still laughing, and Martin Herlihy brought the bird, captive in his hands, up the ladder of the quarterdeck.

‘Mr Saxby will sketch the finch, while you hold it,’ French explained.

‘Aye, sir,’ Martin replied. He stood in front of me, still sweating from the sport of catching it, immobile and obedient, opening a small gap between his hands in order for me to see the bird.

‘Is it struggling?’ I asked.

‘Quite calm, sir,’ Martin replied. Between his thumb and forefinger I peered in at the greenfinch, seeing its precise nostrils either side of a small polished beak. The eyes looked black and gleaming with fright, or exhaustion. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘How did you manage to catch it?’

‘Couldn’t let me brother win,’ he replied, grinning.

I began to sketch the bird, as quickly as I could, although it was far from ideal as most of it was concealed. Martin Herlihy angled his neck, watching my drawing, and obliging me by trying to move his large fingers, one by one, to reveal different parts of the bird.

‘You’ve got the look of it there, sir,’ he said at one point.

‘This is just a preliminary sketch,’ I replied. ‘I shall make a water-coloured painting of it later.’

‘
Ahh,
’ he said.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I think it may have shat itself,’ Martin said, grimacing.

‘Nearly finished?’ French asked.

‘Not quite,’ I replied.

‘It’s shat for sure. It’s shat on me finger.’

‘Herlihy, you sound like a woman,’ French said, watching as the man adjusted his hold on the bird. ‘Keep it still now,’ he ordered.

‘I don’t think I can, sir,’ Herlihy grimaced. A dark wing with a vivid yellow flash slipped out between his fingers, accompanied by a hideous chirping that Herlihy tried to subdue.

‘Ahh,’ he said, again, spooked.

‘Oh for God’s sake!’ French said, impatiently. ‘Give it here, you fool.’

Quickly, he reached into Martin Herlihy’s hands, held the frightened bird and, with a practised movement, wrung its neck. The finch jolted two or three times, its beak parting with surprise, before becoming limp. French laid it down on top of the saloon roof, as if it was a small cloth bag, and with a finger he moved the broken neck to arrange it properly.

‘Thank you, Martin, you may resume your duties,’ he said to the Irishman. ‘You may sketch it at your leisure, now, Mr Saxby,’ he told me, and even as he spoke he was turning away, quickly bored by the whole incident. I looked after him, shocked. As he approached the captain, I saw a devilish smile creep across Sykes’ face, and I knew that French must have shared a very private look with him.

Martin Herlihy remained standing where he’d been, as though he’d been slapped. I could tell he felt responsible, and that the death of the bird would sit heavily on him. Strength of body and compassion of mind grow together. He shut his eyes for a second in prayer, before he moved off, wiping his hand on his trouser in a practical manner, but treading heavily, I thought.

I placed my sketchbook next to the dead greenfinch. My half-completed drawing confronted me: the sketch of a bird that was still living. Its similarity to the etching of the great auk in my Arctic book, an image created in all likelihood after the extinction of the species, felt eerie. They were the drawings of ghosts.

Catching the finch had been sport for the whole crew, but its death, and its body, belonged to me. I wondered whether I should drop it over the ship’s rail, but feared this would be transgressing some superstitious custom; worse still, one of the gulls attending the ship would dive, immediately, and swallow it in front of all who watched.

But something had to be done with the body. I was just about to pick it up when surprisingly a hand took hold of my wrist. I heard a voice in my ear, calm and measured, a woman’s voice:

‘Why are the men always killing things?’

I glanced up and saw Celeste, bending to my level, with a woven shawl wrapped tightly round her. Her eyes seemed on the verge of tears, with dark rings below them and skin so shockingly pale it was almost translucent. Her mouth was set firm, as if in pain. She acted as if caught, clutching her arms in protection, holding herself, the only movement that of the curled ringlets of brown hair which hung either side of her face, stirred by the breeze.

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

‘You don’t know what?’ she replied, with a quick frown that was gone almost as it appeared.

My mouth felt dry. ‘About the men. I don’t know why they kill things.’

I waited for her to recognise me. It had been ten years since we had last seen each other, but I hadn’t changed, not enough. She pressed a hand to her temple, as if suppressing a headache.

‘You are staring at me,’ she said, quietly.

I felt my skin prickling with heat. ‘I’m sorry.’

She remained there, a little puzzled, looking sadly now at the bird laid next to us on the top of the saloon roof.

‘Were you there at the moment it died?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘They have such tiny souls—perhaps the weight of a breath—that is all.’ She smiled, consoling herself. ‘But it is a soul, nonetheless, such as you and I possess, and who can say whether our souls are any more substantial. Was it in your hands?’

‘When it died? No. That sailor held it.’

‘Which one?’

I looked across the deck where the work of the ship had begun once more, spotting the Herlihy brothers talking to each other. ‘By the galley door—the one with the neckerchief.’

She appraised him with a slight tilt of her head. ‘A strong man, wouldn’t you say? Strong hands, but I think he felt that soul depart. I see it in his face. He felt it as sure as an oak tree must feel the first leaf fall in autumn.’ She performed a curious gesture with her hand, floating it downward as if emulating a leaf. Her hand came to rest on the wood of the roof, alongside the bird.

‘Of course,’ she said, more brightly, ‘the answer is that men kill things because they enjoy it.’

‘Not all men are like that’ I replied.

She smiled, conceding. ‘Did it suffer?’ she asked.

‘It was scared when the men were trying to catch it. It became cornered over there, between the rail and hatches, and when it flew out over the sea I believe it was very agitated. It repeatedly changed course and was distressed to have no option—not knowing whether to be caught or drowned. But once it was captured it became quite calm. When Mr French killed it, he did it swiftly.’

‘Dispatched in a proper manner,’ she stated, unconvinced. I thought about how he had reached into Herlihy’s grasp, impatiently, then how with a twist of his fingers the bird had died, quickly, without fuss and without choice.

‘No. Actually he acted most improperly,’ I said. ‘I think he found pleasure in it.’

She looked back, startled. ‘Yes,’ she said, as a flush of colour rose in her cheeks.

‘The bird was going to die,’ I explained, ‘either at sea or from exhaustion. But it had that right, I suppose—to have a natural death. It shouldn’t have been killed.’

She touched the greenfinch with her finger, closing its beak and then stroking the intricate feathers of its crown. I watched, transfixed, as her fingertip pressed into the plumage of the neck, where the break had occurred, smoothing and flattening the feathers as if they were silk.

‘Are you the collector?’ she asked quietly.

‘Yes.’

‘May I ask your name?’

It’s time, I thought; she will remember the name. ‘Eliot,’ I said. ‘I’m Eliot Saxby.’

She regarded me, a little intrigued, but without any sign of recognition.

‘My cousin has been telling me about you,’ she said. ‘He is … well, what should we say, he’s very impressionable. He likes you.’

I felt confused. Surely she recalled my name? But her look revealed nothing. ‘He is a very enthusiastic fellow,’ I said.

‘Sometimes too enthusiastic,’ she replied, dryly. ‘Like a puppy that keeps bouncing up at you—he needs the occasional rap upon the nose.’

‘I shall bear that in mind.’

‘Was it you I saw last night, listening to the men sing their shanty?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’