We Float Upon a Painted Sea (11 page)

“Are you sure you didn’t take a piss in it?”

“No, why would I urinate in the drinking water?” Bull shrugged his shoulders, unable to come up with a plausible reason. He handed back the cup and said,

“So what exactly was so important that you had to wake me up?”

Andrew’s face became pensive. Bull braced himself for Andrew’s morning sermon, which he sensed was coming. He had neither the energy nor the willpower to resist his overtures. He sat up and bailed water from the floor of the raft. Andrew coughed to clear his throat and then he licked his dry lips. Here it comes, he thought.

“I was once marooned on an island with my uncle and my brother,” said Andrew. “It was after our yacht capsized. I forgot to shout,
ready to jibe!
My Uncle Alasdair got hit on the head with the swinging boom. It knocked him overboard and into the drink. He was unconscious and it was up to me to save him. You’ve already witnessed from before that I’m a strong swimmer. When I was young I used to swim against a boy who later went on to win a bronze medal at the Olympic Games. I regularly beat him.” Bull put down the makeshift water bailer and said,

“Are you sure you didn’t kick me?” Andrew groaned, as if in pain.

“Look, you’ve been oversleeping. It’s not good for you. I read somewhere that it causes headaches.”

“So you woke me from my dream to tell me you can swim. Good for you, can I go back to sleep now.”

“What were you expecting? Breakfast in bed?”

“Breakfast would be good actually. It might settle my stomach. What have you got?”

“Apart from soft prunes and bannock cake? Not much.”

Andrew rummaged around in the suitcase. He found the bag of prunes and threw one at Bull who caught it in his mouth. He took out his multi-tool and then cut a slice of bannock cake. He stretched over and handed the cake to Bull saying,

“Look, do you want to hear my story or not?” Bull mumbled his words through a mouth full of cake,

“If there’s a choice, I’ll plump for
not.
”

“Well you’re going to hear it anyway. As I said, my uncle was unconscious and it was up to me to save him and my brother. Graham was in an awful panic and he was unable to control the yacht after I dived in to rescue my uncle. Suddenly, the yacht capsized and he was in the drink too.” Bull interjected.

“Is there a point to this story? I’m a busy man and time is getting on. I’ve got a lot of interesting things to do today.” Bull sighed and looked upward as if seeking divine intervention.

“I’m sure you have but not before you have heard my story.”

“Is this going to take long?”

Andrew looked down at his boots. His story recital was not going to plan. He watched as Bull bailed water with his brazier cup. He wondered if he was wasting his time and that his judgement was clouded by his belief that there is potential in everyone. He decided he would continue nonetheless. He said,

“Anyway, I managed to get us all to shore by dragging my uncle through the swells and by encouraging my brother – he was a weaker swimmer and lacked my confidence in the water. It was touch and go for quite a while out there, and I was always conscious of the depth of the water below and the blood dripping from my Uncle’s head wound as we thrashed around on the surface of the sea. I don’t mind admitting that the thought of a shark attack played heavily on my mind.”

Bull’s eyebrows rose in expectation when Andrew mentioned sharks. Andrew sensed he had Bull’s attention. He continued,

“When we got to shore, I dragged him over the sand, cut a swathe through the vegetation and made my uncle comfortable. I started a fire. I needed to keep him warm but also, just in case someone saw our signal and may have been in a position to rescue us. Luckily my uncle regained consciousness but to be honest, the situation was hopeless. I needed to set off and get help. He wanted to go himself but his ankle was broken, so I insisted that it was better for him to stay and look after my younger brother. It seemed like the best plan of action.”

Andrew paused again. He wanted to give Bull enough time to build a clear picture in his mind, and for himself to reflect on the magnitude of his heroism. The silence was only broken by the sound of the grab ropes tapping against the inflated pontoons.

“So there was no shark attack?” said Bull disappointedly.

“No, that was our only piece of good fortune. Can I continue?”

“Go on, if you must,” quipped Bull, now sitting back with his arms folded behind his head, waiting to be entertained. Suddenly, they heard a voice from the other side of the raft.

“Stop, stop this ma…it’s too late…” Bull edged towards Malcolm. He cupped his face in one hand and with the other he slapped his cheek gently. There was no further response. Bull turned back to Andrew.

“Was I hearing things or did he just come out of a coma to tell you to stop talking. Are you sure you don’t know him? It sounds like he’s heard this story before.”

“This is a new low for you isn’t it? Reduced to mocking a sick man,” replied Andrew with a sneer on his lips, “but if you must know he’s been making strange noises for some time now. You’re just usually asleep when he goes off on one.” Bull sniffed the air and said,

“The putrid smell inside this raft can’t be helping him.” Andrew opened the aperture and let some fresh air in. Bull said,

“Are you sure he’s unconscious, I mean people in comas don’t usually talk do they.” Andrew shook his head.

“I didn’t hear him talk. All I heard was some incoherent mumblings.”

“I think he was dreaming about his mother.”

“What gives you that idea?”

“He said,
stop this ma.
”

“He’s a bit old to be having dreams about his mother,”

“I have dreams about my mother all the time.”

“I think psychologists have a term for that.”

“I don’t have an Oedipus complex, if that’s what you’re implying. Anyway, you haven’t answered my question - do people in comas talk? I thought you were the man with all the answers?”

“There’s a thing called the Glasgow Coma Scale and I’ve only got basic medical training, but we once had a gillie on the estate who fell down a river bank and suffered a head injury…” Bull interrupted.

“One story at a time Sherlock,” he exclaimed.

Andrew waited patently, his lips pursed and his hands clasped resting on his legs, until Bull settled down. He continued his story.

“Anyway, after much persuasion, he agreed to let me go in his place...”

“Who did?” interrupted Bull, “the wounded gillie or your Uncle?”

“My Uncle,” replied Andrew through gritted teeth.

“So you’re uncle was the gillie?”

“No, my uncle wasn’t a gillie, that was another story I mentioned to explain the concept of coma.” Bull laughed.

“Alright, I’m with you now.” Andrew stared soberly at Bull. He said,

“So I set off with some meagre rations - a bottle of drinking water and a Tunnock’s tea cake. I had just turned eighteen but I was as fit as I am now, although much slighter of frame back then. My Grandfather used to say that I had the physique of a traveller’s dog: all ribs and cock.”

Bull’s eyes opened wide. He said,

“I don’t really know how to react to that last statement.”

“My journey took me through bushes, thickets and all sorts of hazardous vegetation. At one point I thought I was never going to make it.”

Finally, Bull heard a hint of emotion in Andrew’s crackling voice. He sat upright waiting for the flood gates to open. Andrew was inspired by Bull’s display of eagerness and proceeded to add a bit more sensation to his voice.

“Well I decided that I needed to be strong. After my uncle’s accident, everyone was relying on me. Even at that tender young age, I was already showing leadership qualities well beyond my years. It was a matter of practicalities you see.”

“So what happened next?” asked Bull eager for him to continue the story.

“Well, I came across some locals but not surprisingly they appeared to be hostile – I had stories about this part of the world. One of them even threw a projectile at me! I feared for my safety, so I decided to run and stay
well
clear of them. I wasn’t going to get any help there. I was pretty much left on my own, without a map or even a compass. The terrain was disorientating and the suppressive heat and humidity were combining to sap my energy levels. Nevertheless, I persevered and eventually reached civilisation where finally I managed to get help. Suffering from heat exhaustion and dehydration, I stumbled upon a phone box and one hour later, I returned with an ambulance, the Essex police and the Royal Coast Guard.” Bull’s face dropped as if consumed by gravity. He sighed,

“What do you mean a phone box, the police and the Coast Guard? Were they in the jungle looking for you?” Andrew said,

“I never said I was in the jungle. It was a hot summer’s day and we capsized off Canvey Island. It was the hottest day on record at the time. It was one hundred and three degrees Fahrenheit and the humidity was unbelievable. The incident made the Canvey Island Echo …” Bull held up his hand and said,

“It was hardly an ordeal, more of an accident involving you going for help. What about all your tales of the hostile locals?”

“Have you ever been to Canvey Island? It’s not the type of place strangers ask directions, especially if all you are wearing is thigh length khaki shorts, knee length socks and a pair of blue deck plimsolls.”

“Yes, I do know Canvey Island. It’s not even an island, sorry, was even an island. It was a peninsula before the floods, so once again Sherlock, what exactly is the point to your story? I hope there was a reason behind this long winded fable?”

“Well I believe that even at a young age, I showed good leadership skills during a time of emergency. I was an officer in the Territorial Army, I was Captain…” Bull raised his finger and stretching over pressed it against Andrew’s lips.

“I’m going back to sleep.” He said.

Chapter 8: New spring fades

2034. 18 months earlier

Saffron couldn't sleep. She lay alone in bed, looking at the ceiling. She had come to a decision. She regarded her existence in the universe as being enhanced by sharing her experiences with another human being, and not as her raison d´être. She considered that jealousy was perhaps a new emotion for Bull, and that he was finding its destructive powers difficult to handle. Bull had an inner strength rarely evident in previous
subjects of desire
, she thought. He had an aura of kindness about him. He was compassionate and had a wonderful, if somewhat immature sense of humour. She had tried to change him, but she had taken him as far as she could. She had to admit to another failure. It was a shame it couldn’t last - her work with him was almost complete.  It was now time to move on to her next project.

Bull returned from an evening at the St Mungo’s Arms, carrying a carton of Balti curry. He staggered into the living area after colliding with the companionway and collapsed on the sofa. He slept there for most of the night until later rolling onto the floor in an alcohol induced heap. When Saffron passed him in the morning she looked down to see him wrapped in her Myakka hand woven rug. She reminded herself that negative feelings were natural. She had explored the concept that those searching for completeness in their lives should capture these thoughts, and accept these feelings as part of the evolving process. Failings should be accepted as a human trait, she thought. Saffron knew it was wrong of her to judge him by her own standards - after all she had identified many failings of her own. Subjecting the same demands that she expected from herself was unfair. Examining his inebriated form she discovered a nasty cut to his head.

Saffron stepped into the toilet cubicle and opened the medicine cabinet, stopping only briefly to catch her reflection in the door mirror. She grabbed the first aid kit, opened it and found a bottle of liquid plaster. As she turned, she lost her balance, slipping on the collateral damage done by Bull’s drunken urinal misfire. Struggling to find her feet, she bemoaned the months of persuading him to urinate whilst sitting down. Saffron glared contemptuously at Bull as she walked over his sleeping carcass. She cleaned his wound and applied the plaster, picked up her hemp bag and left for her photography class.

Later that day, fighting the symptoms of the previous nights over indulgences, Bull called his work to say he was ill and would be taking the rest of the day off. He went for a walk in the Botanic Gardens, stopping off to see the timber wolves looking out from their sanctuary. He explained his troubles with Saffron to the dumbfounded beasts. When the wolves became antagonised and aggressive an unsympathetic Park Keeper asked him to move on. He returned home to Maryhill Locks. Stepping onto the narrowboat, he overheard Saffron talking in the galley. He peered through the porthole. He could see an older woman, perhaps Saffron’s mother he thought, at last, I will get to meet her. He listened to the conversation.

“We don’t even have to say much to each other,” said Saffron, “but instinctively we know how each other are feeling and that is enough.”

Bull smirked, deluding himself that Saffron was listing some of his virtues. Perhaps at odds with yesterday’s outburst, thought Bull. He nodded in agreement when she described the kindness and sensitivity that he often aspired to, and even adding a few suggestions of his own to her list. He stepped onto the upper deck and continued to eavesdrop but was overcome with a new found modesty, even questioning some of the perceived qualities regarding his background. Salford was culturally rich and diverse but he would hardly describe it as
mystical,
although he had heard that Eccles Parish Church was haunted.  Saffron persisted, “You know how I’ve always needed someone like him in my life. I think he might be the one. I only hope that Faerrleah will understand. I don’t think he likes the idea of Maurice and me very much.”

When Bull heard Maurice’s name, he dropped his door keys onto the deck in disbelief. When Saffron heard the clang of metal on wood above her head, she changed the conversation stating, “So an infusion of comfrey, burdock and evening primrose may cure his rash...” Finally, Saffron walked out through the hatch and up the steps to the upper deck. She blinked when she came into the daylight. She watched Bull sitting on the bench, his head in his hands. She waited for him to face her. She wanted to see his expression and gauge his mood. After a moment of silence, she said,

“Did you bang your head again? How is you're head. I cleaned and plastered it while you were sleeping.” Bull didn’t answer. Saffron looked at his head, to examine the wound but the plaster had gone and there was no scaring - not even a bruise. Continuing to look at his head in disbelief, she continued,

“My mother is here if you want to meet her? She has given me an herbal remedy for your eczema.” She held her hand up to her eyes which were squinting in the glare of the light which threatened to break from behind the clouds. “It isn’t eczema,” said Bull churlishly.

Bull fidgeted on the edge of his seat, his mind filled with rambling paranoia and agonising scenarios of Saffron and Maurice in intimate positions. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. He stared out onto the algae blooms floating on the water and the multicoloured row of narrowboats lining the canal. Saffron tried to explain that whatever he thought, all he had heard was half a conversation and that they needed to talk. When Saffron put her hand on his shoulder, he brushed her off. He stood, up and walked down the steps and out, onto the moorings. “I know you’re confused Faerrleah but we need to talk. There are a few things I need to explain to you,” shouted Saffron. Bull walked away. Saffron watched him saunter along the moorings towards the bridge. Out of sight, she wiped the tears from her face. She became engulfed in a new emotion of guilt. She questioned the path she had taken with Bull. She questioned herself.

She sat sobbing until her mother joined her, offering her a comforting arm and a kiss on the cheek. Saffron turned to her mother and said, “I just can’t do this anymore, it’s too hard.”

“I know dear. I understand,” replied Saffron’s mother.

“That’s the problem, you don’t understand. No one does?” Saffron’s mother gave her a handkerchief and then left. Later, Saffron went below to the galley. She lit her pipe and made a cup of herbal tea. A mobile phone rang in Bull’s jacket pocket. She picked it up and examined the device. It looked antiquated. I haven’t seen one of these in years, she thought. She blocked the 3D projection and listened to the voicemail: “Hi, it’s Fergus, hope you’re feeling better? I’m sorry but we need you to go back to Reykjavik and carry out some more tests on those drill sites. They are not happy with your model results, the ones that identified pipe fatigue in the bearings and sealing systems. It’s going to cost them and you know the oil industry, always squealing about being under so much financial pressure. We need you to re-run the model but this time we need more favourable results. Call me when you get this message.” Saffron ended the call.

That night Bull slept on the sofa and in the morning he left for Iceland. He called Saffron from Reykjavik airport to apologise for walking away and not staying to talk things through. Saffron seemed cold and distant. He was glad that the visual communicator wasn’t working on his Shackle. He didn’t want to see her cry. She said,

“This isn’t really working out the way I had imagined it would. We’re not the people we think we are. I’ve been trying to change you but I have no right to expect that from you.” A bubble of panic rose up within Bull’s stomach. He felt sick but somehow still managed to speak. His words were laced with nervousness.

“I’m sorry. I’ve being childish but I see that now. I was jealous and foolish. Look, I need to go. I’ve got more ice bores samples to analyse before they can build the new flood barrier up here. I’ll see you at the Naked Bike Ride for Climate Change in Glasgow Green tomorrow tonight and we can talk then, if you like? I love you Saffron.”

The line went dead. During the conversation with Saffron he had noticed a young girl sitting beside him and listening into his conversation. He winked at her but to save himself any further embarrassment, he continued talking into the communicator. “Yes, well, I’ve tried to be fair but enough is enough. I’m not a man to be trifled with. I’ll say no more on the subject.” Bull pretended to hang up the communicator and turning to the girl said, “That’s women for you. Don’t you grow up to be like her?” The girl looked up and in perfect English, replied,

“She hung up on you, a while ago, didn’t she? You can tell by the light on the top of the com changing from green to red. Call her back, I want to see her 3D projection – I bet she’s really ugly, if you’re anything to go by.” Bull frowned at the young girl and said,

“She’s beautiful if you must know but more importantly she’s a very good person.” The little girl smiled and said,

“Why is she with you then? You lied.”

“I didn’t lie.” The little girl pointed to the com and said,

“You did, you pretended she was listening and she wasn’t. You’re not a nice man.”

“Neither are you!”

“Ha, ha you think I’m a man. You can’t tell the difference between boys and girls. You’re a big freak.” Tears began to well up in Bull’s eyes. “Ha, ha and now you’re starting to cry. You can’t even beat an eleven year old in an argument.” Finally Bull said, “Didn’t your parents teach you not to eavesdrop on adults conversations?” The girl’s father approached and led her away by the hand. Then she stopped and turned back, repeatedly jerking her fist. Bull sunk his head into his hands. He wondered if his secret was out.

The following day Bull returned to Glasgow from Reykjavik. Thinking of Saffron’s lecture on using low emission transport, he took a skytran from the airport to the Salt Market and picked up a rented bicycle. An air quality warning had been issued, so he put his respirator on and wheeled the short distance down to Glasgow Green.  The Naked Bike Ride for Climate Change was already under way when he arrived. Bull stuffed all his clothes in a plastic bag and placed it on the wet ground. He called Saffron on his Shackle but only found her voicemail. He was naked apart from his respirator mask. It started to rain. He mounted his rented bike and waited for Saffron amongst the hundreds of nude cyclists. He waited for over an hour but Saffron failed to appear. The last cyclist departed and he was alone and naked, with only his bike for company.

He felt like an abandoned child at a fun park. He wanted to go home, hoping Saffron would be there. He looked for his belongings but they were gone. Bull approached a police officer and asked if he had come across a plastic bag with his clothes. The police officer grunted,

“I saw a gang of neds kicking a bag around like a football, about twenty minutes ago.”

“What’s a NED?” asked Bull.

“A Non Educated Delinquent. One of them sent the bag skyward, over the bridge and into the Clyde.”

“And you just stood there and watched them?”

“It’s not in my job description to jump into rivers to retrieve clothes discarded by their civilian owners.”

Bull cycled naked along the Clyde Walkway, in the opposite direction of the other cyclists, and back towards Maryhill Locks. When eventually arrived home he opened the hatch to the narrowboat, taking care not to bang his head on the companionway. It took a while for him to realise that Saffron had left. He went back through the hatch and onto the moorings to see if her bicycle was still there. It was gone. He returned below. This time he banged his head. He screamed out in pain, “Bollocks!” he shouted. He heard someone shout from a flat above the narrowboat,

“Put some claes on big man, you’re puttin me aff ma meatballs!” Bull ignored the man and returned inside.

At first sight, there were no obvious signs that Saffron had left. He stood for a while, alone in the lounge area, marinated in the Glasgow rain. In his hand, he held weeds that he had picked for her on the way home. They filled the air with a mousey aroma, and he was convinced the sap from one of the plants was burning his fingers. He walked through the galley and into the sleeping quarters. Most of her possessions were still there, he thought. Turning back towards the lounge, he sensed something was missing – it wasn’t the embroidered Boho cushions, the totem or the patchwork Batik tassel throw from the sofa - he realised their pet terrapin, Boris was gone from his cage.

A note lay on the coffee table, weighted down by one of the glass pebble wishing stones that he had bought her from an Inuit market - the stone was inscribed,
trust.
The note started,
Dear Faerrleah
, and explained that she was a
free spirit
and likened their lives to a stone being thrown into a still pool and that there were troughs and peaks but eventually everything returns to calm. She explained that through her Yoga she had visualised all her objectives in an attempt to make them come true in life, and he didn’t harmonise with any of them. She described how they had both become stifled by their situation and needed to find their true purpose in life. She elucidated that she couldn’t deal with negative feelings of possessiveness and jealousy but most of all she couldn’t live a lie anymore. Then she wrote something he didn’t fully understand: that they were miniature parts of a larger machine but the machine was grinding to a halt and removing herself may help unjam it and help him find his true purpose. She had also given him back the
pop-up
scratch and sniff
Kama Sutra book that he had given her for her birthday. Bull struggled to comprehend the contents of the letter, reading it over and over until his eyes welled up with tears. There was no mention of Maurice in the letter.