Jamrach's Menagerie (12 page)

he paused ‘… of any kind …’, panting moistly, soft-eyed, Samson whined, ‘… wil be punished with utmost severity.’

He scanned us with his pale questioning blue eyes as if searching for dissent.

‘Utmost severity,’ he repeated thoughtful y.

Mr Rainey stepped forward from the smal line-up of him and Comeragh and Cash. Why Cash? Standing there with his cool half smile, as if he was a mate already.

‘If I might comment,’ Mr Rainey said.

‘Most certainly, Mr Rainey,’ replied Captain Proctor pleasantly.

‘It occurs to me that Copper might be a wiser choice than Hannah, sir. Copper has a smattering of the native tongue.

Hannah, I believe, has none.’

There was an odd moment. Captain Proctor’s hand stopped fondling his dog. Cash gave a slight nod, and Comeragh looked away. The captain’s eyes flickered, he adjusted his hat. ‘Thank you, Mr Rainey,’ he said smoothly,

‘a good suggestion. Copper, Flower – fair dealing.’

It was a good choice. John Copper knew what he was about. He told me later he’d worked on his aunt’s fish stal in Hul since he was about six years old. John measured fairly with quart pot and pint cup, a frown of concentration pleating the skin between his eyes. It was funny to hear him switch between his native Yorkshire and pig Portuguese as he haggled gamely with the noisy women.
‘Três, senhora, três
so! Bastante! Obrigado, obrigado, depois por favor.’

The rest of us who’d gone ashore were free to roam around the town, and a sweet little town it was, ful of narrow cobbled lanes and donkeys and flowers and smal white houses with patterned tiles upon the wal s. Some of the buildings were grand, with fine balconies that overhung the road, flowers cascading, but mostly the houses were poor, and the children who peeped out of their doorways were barefoot and raggy, with bright, dark eyes. The men were shabby. The women carried pots on their heads and wore long cloaks with stiff hoods in spite of the warmth of the day.

But there was nothing in the shops we wanted, and anyway we had no money. So after a while me and Tim strol ed out of town along a narrow climbing lane hedged with great clumps of pink and purple flowers, and we saw a wooden plough drawn by two oxen, and a couple of men digging in the fields. High bamboo hedges divided the land. Here and there were cottages with scabby thatched roofs.

We climbed til the land became woody. Big rocks poured water down into the gul eys at the sides of the track.

‘To think there’s this,’ I said. ‘Al the time.’ It seemed to me for one moment that unhappiness was a nonsense. I thought of my mother gutting fish in Limehouse and Ishbel coming off Quashies’ stage.

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Tim said.

It was a funny thing with me and Tim. I don’t think we ever real y had any proper conversations, not what you’d real y cal a conversation, not like I’ve had with others. Skip, for example. Now me and Skip, we could rattle on al day and night. Me and Tim now, we never talked. But we did know what the other meant.

We saw a figure dark upon the skyline, sitting on a high flat rock completely stil and engrossed in what may have been a book upon his knee. Skip. Something seemed strange about him, and it took me a moment or two to realise it was the stil ness. I’d never seen him stil before.

Skip was a jiggler. When he stood he swayed, when he sat he banged his knees together.

‘What you up to, Skip?’ yel ed Tim.

Skip jerked.

Tim scaled the rock, grinning.

‘Fuck you.’ Skip said it like he said everything, quiet and control ed. ‘Creeping around like that! Why don’t you say you’re there? Creeping up on a fel ow like that.’

‘Who’s creeping?’

‘You’s creeping, fuckhead.’

I fol owed Tim. It was nice on the rock, warm and airy.

Crosslegged we sat, braves a-powwow.

‘What you doing?’

‘Drawing.’ Skip pushed the book towards us.

There was the island, looking in towards the volcano, a few grey, feathery lines that somehow made a picture.

‘Pretty,’ Tim said.

I turned back a page. There was the harbour, with
Lysander
in the bay, every mast and sail and spar of her. I turned the pages back and there we al were, our faces, our hands, our very ways of leaning against the rail or sitting at the kid – Yan’s high-planed face, Comeragh’s lanky stance, Bil , my sickmate, eating his dinner, the way his hair bushed about his head. Wilson Pride standing in the cookhouse doorway peeling a poatato

‘There’s Samson!’ Tim pointed.

I laughed. ‘There’s the captain to a T.’ Captain Proctor, chubby, eyeless.

‘There’s you, Jaf!’

Oh me, yes, it was me.

‘I never saw you do these,’ Tim said.

Skip shrugged.

‘Where’d you learn to draw like that?’

‘It’s a gift.’ He swal owed, a loud liquid clicking sound that must surely have pained his Adam’s apple. The sound of dogs barking in a yelping frenzy came from far inland, and he turned his head towards it. ‘I’ve always had a lot of gifts,’

he said pensively, holding his mouth in that weird stiff way he had as if he was carrying a mouthful of water. A funny thing to say.

‘What other gifts have you got, Skip?’ I asked him.

He drew his knees up towards his chin, wrapped his arms around them and started rocking backwards and forwards, smiling his awkward nearly smile. He had a funny face. From the front it was chubby and round, but his profile was odd.

Straight as a ruler it set off down the bridge of his nose before the line turned al wavy, drawing to an exaggerated nodule at the tip and fal ing away into a vague chinlessness.

His skin was bad, flecked with eruptions and bumps.

Tim looked at me, pointed his finger at his head and made a face to show he thought Skip was loopy.

Skip sniggered. ‘Whistling,’ he said in his clumsy, swal owing way.

We laughed.

‘I can whistle anything,’ he added.

It’s true, he was a great whistler.

‘What else?’ I asked. ‘That’s only two things.’

He looked at me, not speaking for a moment. ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ he said.

‘Did you know you were barmy, Skip?’ said Tim. ‘Real y?

Did you know you were wel and truly roaring raving insane?’

‘No, truly.’ Skip laughed. ‘No joke.’

‘What are you drivel ing on about, Skip?’

‘What wouldn’t we understand?’ I asked. ‘Do you think we’re idiots?’

‘Not idiots.’ He licked his lips. ‘Just normal. Normal people.’

‘So, aren’t
you
normal then?’

He smiled. His mouth was smal , hardly there.

‘You’re an irritating prick,’ I told him.

‘Sorry.’ Skip closed his book and slipped it into his pocket. ‘It’s just that people don’t … people don’t …’ He concentrated, frowning. ‘Normal, no, I’m not normal, that’s true.’

‘First thing you’ve said that’s made sense.’ Tim lay down on his back on the rock and shaded his eyes.

‘It’s not a great matter,’ Skip said, pul ing a half shrug to go with the nearly smile. ‘I have the second sight.’

‘Oh, wel , that,’ I said, ‘if that’s al it is.’

Half the people in Ratcliffe Highway had the second sight.

‘Can you tel fortunes?’

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Can you see into the future?’ asked Tim.

Skip thought about it. ‘Sometimes,’ he concluded.

‘So what can you do then?’

‘Read your mind!’ I said. ‘Go on, what’s Tim thinking?’

‘He’s thinking I’m mad.’

We laughed.

‘They went to church,’ Skip said.

‘Who did?’

‘Mr Rainey. Henry Cash. Sam Proffit.’

‘Did they now?’ Tim sat up and rubbed his eyes.

‘They went to church, but that isn’t where the god is.’

A soft breeze, flowery, gentle, rippled its finger ends upon the napes of our necks.

‘Where’s the god then, Skip?’ I asked. Tim and I exchanged a look. Skip just smiled. A tiny lizard skittered across the rock as if cal ed, and we al laughed again.

‘A sign!’ cried Tim. ‘Oh, mighty lizard, bless me!’

‘That’s what
we’re
going after,’ I said, ‘only it’s a mil ion times bigger.’

‘A mil ion?’ Tim leaned back on his elbows. ‘God, I hope not.’

Skip lay down on his back and stretched out, closing his eyes. His eyelids were thick and heavy, china white. ‘This creature,’ he said, ‘this thing. This
thing
. Think you’l find it?’

‘If we do we’l be rich.’ I lay down too. It was hot.

‘No,’ Skip said. ‘You won’t. You won’t be rich.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I know.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘I do.’

‘Huh.’ Tim lay down too. There we three lay under a hot sun. When I closed my eyes everything was orange. I don’t have to go home, I thought. I can go anywhere. The world’s endless. I could live here. I could live anywhere. It doesn’t have to be the Highway and the river and Spoony’s and Meng’s. I could live on a mountain. In a jungle. Where it’s al flowers. Miles of distance and nothing sure and nothing the same. I tried to say it, but it came out wrong, so I gave up.

‘Just think,’ Skip said, and chuckled as if he’d just thought of something very funny, ‘next second. Now! The mountain explodes.’

Tim laughed. ‘Boom!’

‘Funny, isn’t it?’ said Skip. ‘Any minute we could al be dead.’

‘Where you from, Skip?’ I asked.

He didn’t answer for so long I’d forgotten I’d asked, then:

‘Rochester,’ he said, ‘once upon a time.’

Al the boats were ful y laden and stil there was a bit of whale oil left.

‘Think that’s sense?’ Rainey was barking at Simon Flower. ‘Giving it away? Hey! Boy! That what you were told?’

‘No, sir,’ said Simon, a dark-haired serious boy who gave Tim a run for his money when it came to beauty.

‘No more, no more. Tel them no more,’ yel ed Rainey at John Copper, who was trying to drive away a gaggle of old beggar women as if they were geese.

‘How much is left, Mr Rainey?’ Captain Proctor, coming along behind, speaking mildly.

I don’t know about church, but Rainey had certainly had a drink. It came off him in a waft as he turned. ‘Not much,’ he said, tilting a barrel.

‘What do you think, Mr Flower?’

Simon was blushing furiously. ‘Dregs, sir,’ he said.

Proctor thought for a moment then decided. ‘Drain them off. Let’em have what’s left. Damn little anyway.’

The old women rushed forward and mobbed the barrels, pushing each other about and shoving their cups under the taps. It was getting dark. Dan Rymer was sitting on the sea wal . Far out in the bay, the
Lysander
had lit its lanterns, and lights were appearing inland. Dan cal ed me and Tim over.

‘This is your first real run ashore,’ he said. ‘Stick with me.

There is no better guide.’

I didn’t know how old Dan was. He was wrinkled, but he acted like a younger man, and from time to time a slow boyish kind of smile would il uminate his ruined face: ruined because there was some handsome ghost stil hiding in it, rarely seen and al but completely buried in its dried-up, ageing appearance. He’d always just been Mr Jamrach’s favourite supplier, a gruff, familiar, now-and-then presence, and since we’d embarked he’d not had that much to do with me because Gabriel seemed to have taken over my training.

But that night in Horta was the night I started getting to know him.

The narrow lanes were fragrant with flowers. The wal s of the houses were patterned, coloured. To a tavern – or was it a house? – I’l never know. A golden light spil ed through a door. A woman was singing. Her dark voice came out into the night and it sounded like heaven. Blossom bil owed down the wal s, hung over the narrow street, purple and white. We came to a room ful of good wil , the wal s ful of saints, the tables of men who laughed, and women far finer than the whores of Ratcliffe Highway. These women – these dark foreign women. Their black eyebrows, their brown skin, their complicated way of moving. A rich aroma opened the pores beneath my tongue, sweet herbs and meat juices.

There was a fire on the ground, a pot cooking on it.

I was at a table, my back against a wal , Tim to one side, Dan across the table in front of me. I drank something strong and dark and red out of a round leather bottle. A handsome friendly woman, who spoke fast foreign al the time, gave us stew and potatoes and I had never tasted anything as delicious. I thought I must come and live here, take my chances with the volcanoes.

‘You see,’ said Dan, wagging his spoon at me, ‘I know the places to go.’

‘Damn right,’ said Tim. ‘Don’t know what we’d do without you.’

‘Without me,’ said Dan grandly, ‘you’d be like al the rest.

Uncle Dan knows everything.’ He had a slight lisp. He poured freely from the leather bottle and we drank. A girl with braids and a red bandanna sat on some wooden steps and played a mandolin, and I fel in love with her on the instant and knew that I would never leave this place, that I had found my true home at last and would now be happy for ever. The voice of the mandolin was a pealing cascade, unbearably sweet, making tears swel in my chest. There was singing, the mel ow singing of happy drunken men. A very smal kitten clawed its way up onto my knee, a sweet purring thing that nuzzled into my armpit and commenced suckling. Dogs big and smal roamed the shadows, under the table, in and out the door. Chickens, stalking, under and over, talking with their mad sharp beaks ajar. Tim was gone. I looked around for him, but the room span, lovely, colours, the fire, the red bandanna, the blue cloaks. Dan was stil there, peering at me humorously, a U-shaped grinning mouth, smal close-together eyes set wel back under a low, furrowed brow.