Behind the Sun (18 page)

‘Friday and Harrie and Sarah, yes. And Janie and Sally, but you know them.’ Rachel was chattering but she couldn’t help it. She was gazing at Bella’s lovely embroidered robe and all the nice things she had on the shelves around her bunk. And at her slippered feet; they were so pale. And she had no hair at all on her lower legs, or her forearms, for that matter. How fascinating.

Bella tucked her feet under her robe. ‘Shouldn’t you be up on deck with everyone else? Or are you feeling poorly?’ The harsh tone had gone from her voice and she no longer reminded Rachel of an irate crow.

‘No, I feel very well, thank you. I wanted to…It was you I was hoping to speak to, Mrs Jackson.’

Bella gave a low, throaty laugh and patted the mattress. ‘Sit down, Rachel, make yourself comfortable. And it’s not missus — I’m a dried-up old spinster. Call me Bella. How can I help you?’

Rachel blinked: this wasn’t what she’d expected at all. Gingerly she sat on the end of the bunk.

‘Close the curtains, there’s a good girl,’ Bella said.

Rachel twitched the curtains shut.

‘There we are, nice and cosy.’ Bella reached for a small box on a shelf and offered it to Rachel. ‘Turkish delight, my favourite. Would you like some?’

The delicate scent of rose drifted up into Rachel’s nostrils and her mouth watered immediately. It had been a long time since she’d had a proper sweet. She selected the biggest piece, white confectioner’s sugar coating her fingers, and bit into it, relishing the sensation of the firm, slightly squeaky jelly sliding over her teeth. ‘It’s really delicious,’ she said.

Bella took a piece for herself and popped it into her wide mouth, the sugar leaving a white trace on her red-stained lips. Her tongue snaked out and licked it off.

Rachel had a horrible thought. She blurted, ‘You’re not…I’m not…I’m sorry, but I like men.’

Bella laughed and a puff of sugar blew out of the Turkish delight box. ‘And I like Turkish delight. Don’t worry, Rachel, you’re safe with me.’

Rachel stifled her sigh of relief. ‘Thank you for dobbing in Liz Parker the other day. I would have lost all three games if you hadn’t.’

‘My pleasure, Rachel. You’re a very good player.’ Bella gave an odd little smile. ‘And I can’t abide a cheat. Now, what did you want to speak to me about?’

‘I have a friend who’s terrified of being at sea. I heard that you might have —’

‘Which friend? Harrie, Friday or Sarah?’

‘I don’t want to say.’ Telling Bella would be too…intimate, like breaking a trust. It didn’t feel right.

‘Go on, Rachel.’ Bella reached out and touched Rachel’s knee conspiratorially. ‘You can tell me, surely?’

‘Really, I just can’t.’

Bella sat back. ‘I understand. What did you hear?’

‘Matilda Bain said you had some cauls for sale. To stop people from drowning?’

‘Yes, though I’ve sold several already.’

Rachel’s heart plummeted. ‘Oh. Are there any left? I can pay.’

‘There might be. For the right person. I would need to know who, though.’

Rachel pulled at a button on her jacket; the thread broke and the button came off. She put it in her pocket. ‘It’s for Friday.’

Slowly, Bella nodded. ‘Friday Woolfe is very important to you, isn’t she?’

Rachel said yes, unable for some reason to meet Bella’s gaze. This, too, felt somehow like a betrayal and a tiny pang of doubt pricked her.

‘Well, in that case, of course you may have one.’

‘Really? Oh, thank you! How much will you want?’

Bella waved a slim, white hand. ‘You can have it. I won’t charge you.’

‘But…why not?’

‘Because it must have taken a lot of courage for you to come and talk to me. And because a kindness deserves a kindness. And because I like you.’

‘That
is
kind of you!’ Rachel said, startled but delighted. ‘Thank you
very
much.’

‘You’re more than welcome.’

Wrapping her silk robe tightly around her thin body, Bella unlocked one of the two trunks occupying part of the bunk.
Peeking surreptitiously over her shoulder, Rachel saw that the trunk was partitioned: one side contained a vast array of bottles and jars and packets and small boxes and bulging cloth bags, and the other held a collection of fashionable footwear and a large padlocked strongbox. From the latter, Bella took a folded sheet of heavy paper, locking both strongbox and trunk again immediately.

‘Here you are,’ she said, handing the paper to Rachel.

It was foolscap-sized and on it was a large brown splodge where a fine layer of skin, almost transparent in places, had been pressed and dried. Here and there bits had lifted and were flaking where the paper had been creased, and in the bottom left corner was something that looked like a flattened rat’s tail. Rachel made a face and folded the paper again. It didn’t look much but she knew its power.

‘Would you like some more Turkish delight to take with you?’ Bella asked, offering the box again. ‘Here, help yourself.’

Rachel took several more pieces, eating one straight away. ‘Thank you — and thank you for the caul. I know Friday will appreciate it,’ she said through a mouthful of sticky, rose-flavoured sweet.

‘You’re welcome. How old did you say you are, Rachel?’

‘I’m fifteen.’

‘Well, you’re a very pretty little thing. Close the curtains after you, won’t you?’

Bella Jackson is really rather nice, Rachel reflected as she made her way back along the aisle, licking her fingers. Nothing like the nasty, calculating queen of vice everyone has been saying she is. Nothing at all.

That evening, before dinner, Rachel crawled onto the bunk beside Friday’s prostrate body, prodded her alarmingly concave belly and said excitedly, ‘Wake up, sleepyhead, I’ve got you a present.’

Harrie, having an hour off from her duties in the hospital, shared a mystified glance with Sarah. They lay down their cards expectantly.

Friday opened one bloodshot eye; Rachel handed her a folded square of paper.

‘What is it?’

‘Open it and see,’ Rachel said, almost unable to contain herself.

Friday fumbled open the heavy paper. She stared uncomprehendingly for a long moment, then exclaimed, ‘Rachel! Where did you get this?’

Sarah lurched off the bench, was launched sideways by a roll of the ship, righted herself, and squinted at the object in Friday’s hand. ‘What the hell is it?’

Harrie peered over her shoulder. ‘I know what it is. It’s a —’

‘It’s a caul!’ Rachel interrupted, thrilled with herself. ‘So now you don’t need to worry about drowning and you can concentrate on not being sick instead!’

Trying valiantly to ignore her nausea, Friday heaved herself onto one elbow and tilted the paper to better catch the feeble light from the lamp. It was said that an infant born with a caul over its head would be forever safeguarded against drowning and that the possession of such a caul would give the bearer the same immunity. So they were harvested when the child was born, usually by the midwife who would carefully lay a sheet of paper or parchment over the infant’s head and face and press the caul onto it. If done too roughly, the removal of the membrane could wound the child and leave scars, or the caul itself might tear. Some mothers kept the caul as an heirloom; others sold them. They were very popular with sailors. But who had sold this one to Rachel?

‘Where did you get it?’

‘Don’t you like it?’ Rachel sounded doubtful.

Friday looked at her friend and her heart sank. The delighted smile was fading. ‘It’s the best present anyone’s ever given me, really
it is. It doesn’t matter what happens now: I know I’ll be safe. Thank you.’ She sat up and gave Rachel a peck on the cheek, holding her breath to avoid wafting the smell of vomit all over her. ‘You’re a real little sweetheart and I’m really grateful for it, I really am. But where did you get it, love?’

‘I was given it.’

‘By one of the sailors?’ Harrie asked tersely. Friday could see by her worried expression she was wondering what Rachel might have traded for it.

‘No, by Bella Jackson.’

Harrie let out a sigh of relief.

Friday turned back to Rachel, thoroughly nonplussed. ‘Bella Jackson gave you a caul?’

Rachel nodded.

‘She just walked up to you and gave it to you?’

‘No, silly, I asked her for it. Matilda Bain said she had some for sale and I wanted to buy one from her but she said she didn’t want any money. She was very kind to me.’

‘That
was
kind of her,’ Harrie said.

Friday lay back and rested her forearm across her eyes. She would give
anything
for this bloody seasickness to go away. God, what had Rachel done? It was just like her — scatty one minute, extraordinarily considerate the next. She might not have paid money, but the silly girl would pay a price for it sooner or later: it was the way the Bella Jacksons of the world worked. They relied on having people in their debt and ultimately they gave
nothing
away. As soon as she was back on her feet she was going to drag Bella Jackson out of that stupid compartment thing she was hiding in and punch the living daylights out of her. What did she think she was doing, taking advantage of someone as young and gulpy as Rachel?
Rachel
might have thought she was doing a lovely thing, but even if what was stuck on that paper truly was a caul from a human baby and not just some pig’s afterbirth, it still wouldn’t
stop Friday sinking to the bottom of the ocean along with everyone else if the
Isla
was destined to founder.
Everyone
on the
Isla
would need one to stop that from happening. Oh
God
, when was this sickness going to go away?

‘Friday?’ Rachel said, looking hopefully down at her. ‘Do you think you might feel a bit better now, knowing you can’t drown?’

Friday took Rachel’s hand and squeezed. ‘Much better, sweetie, thank you. You’re a proper little angel, you are.’

Rachel beamed and tucked the paper under Friday’s pillow.

The ship’s bell rang, signalling that supper was ready for the mess captains to collect.

‘Will you be able to eat anything?’ Harrie asked Friday.

Friday said no; if she tried she knew she’d only heave it up again. It was bad enough just having to smell it.

‘Are you sure?’ Harrie went on. ‘There might be pudding with raisins. Not even a little bit of that?’

Friday wished Harrie would shut up. She knew she was only trying to help, and that Harrie was worried about her, but it was wearing her down. On the other hand, it was nice to be fussed over; she didn’t want that to stop. Also, hurting Harrie’s feelings would be really unkind, even if Harrie were being really naive about Bella Jackson’s behaviour.

‘Maybe in the morning, eh? I might be feeling better by then.’

‘Well, if you’re sure,’ Harrie said doubtfully.

‘Go on, or Sarah’ll scoff the lot.’

While the others ate, Friday lay with the blanket over her face to block out the smell of pease pudding, thinking about Bella Jackson and getting angry again. So angry, in fact, she decided to do something about it tonight, seasickness be buggered.

She waited until everyone who could had gone up on deck after supper, then sat up, held her head while it stopped spinning, then shuffled on her backside to the edge of the bunk. She wasn’t the only one still below; there were about thirty women and children still on
the prison deck, and she hadn’t seen Bella Jackson go up the ladder. But then Bella had barely been seen since she’d come aboard, except for her appearance at Rachel and Liz’s card game. She didn’t eat at the table and she didn’t exercise up on deck. Was she sick, or just too arrogant to mix with everyone else? Well, it didn’t matter either way — Friday was sorting out this Rachel business and that was that. She slid her feet into her boots and hauled herself upright, clutching the post at the end of the bunk as stars drifted across her vision.

Holding on to the table and various beams and pillars to steady herself, she made her way down the aisle, rolling with the ship, bumping her hips, knee, and, twice, her head. With each knock, her anger ratcheted up a notch. She was nauseated and horribly weak and her legs felt strangely watery. It was worse than the horrors — which was ridiculous, not to mention unfair, as she hadn’t even had the fun of getting drunk. Nodding to two pale-faced women huddled in a bunk and stepping over a child sitting on the floor, she reached the curtained partition that was Bella Jackson’s berth.

Friday rapped on the post, but competing against the creaks and low groans of the
Isla
’s timbers, her knuckles made no discernible sound. ‘Open up, Bella Jackson, I want to talk to you.’

There was no response.

‘Oi, open up!’ Friday called again, louder this time.

Again nothing happened, so she whipped aside the curtain.

On the bunk, propped against a heap of pillows, her long legs crossed at the ankle, reclined Bella. The velvet skirt and jacket had been replaced by a long belted robe of pale green embroidered satin, worn over a white corset: Friday could see a shoulder strap peeking from beneath the robe, the edge of the corset’s modest bodice, and the narrow waist the garment afforded the woman. The skin on Bella’s décolletage was smooth and powdered; she wore an emerald silk scarf at her throat, and on her feet were satin slippers to match the robe. Several fat beeswax candles sat on a little shelf at the rear of the bunk, beside a hand mirror, a pair of silver tweezers
and a slim enamelled case. Friday had seen the like before — it held cigarillos, the new, fashionable miniature cigars; her cullies sometimes smoked them. She might have known the bitch would smoke those rather than a pipe like everyone else.

Bella’s face was as heavily painted as the day she’d embarked and her gleaming hair as beautifully curled, though the skin beneath her brows was swollen and reddened. On one side of the bunk — which she clearly wasn’t sharing at all, never mind with three other women — were arrayed the two trunks the Bristol women had laboriously carted down the companion ladder. The air in the close compartment formed by the curtains was redolent not only of the prison deck, but of body odour, tobacco, honey from the candles, and a strong, heady perfume.