Moon Island (13 page)

In as careless a voice as she could manage she demanded, ‘So what happened to him? The other guy?’

‘He married, not so long afterwards, and had children too.’

The waitress brought the check and laid it on the table beneath Elizabeth’s saucer.

May snatched it up and glared angrily at the total. ‘Why did you tell me this?’ she demanded. She felt close to tears again, unable to deal with the way Elizabeth’s loneliness and long-ago hurt nudged and pressed against her. She felt too fragile to withstand it.

‘Because you told me about the woman on the island.’

May counted her dollar bills and laid them neatly with the check. She knew Elizabeth was waiting for her to make some knowing response. There was some connection between the two stories but whatever it was she didn’t want to make it, or even to think about what it might be. She wished only to regain the safety of Doone’s bedroom, where the diary was brooding in its secret place. She had meant to reread one of the bits, about the pointlessness of everything. She would look at it as soon as she was back there with the door safely closed. John and Ivy would both be busy somewhere, for sure.

‘Well, yeah, okay. One for one.’ She eased her chair back from the table, awkward in the small space, and made a show of looking at her watch. ‘I’ve got to get back, you know?’

Elizabeth reached out and took her hand. May had to force herself either not to snatch it away and run and run, or to stand still and let her shoulders sag while the tears slopped down her face.

‘Can I do anything to help you?’ Elizabeth asked softly.

‘What, how d’you mean help? No, I don’t need anything. Really. Thanks, okay?’

‘Go on, then. If you’re in a hurry, that is. I walk much more slowly than you. Thank you for the tea.’

‘You’re welcome. I mean, I enjoyed it.’ May turned and almost ran down the steps and away from the Flying Fish, back towards the house on the bluff. She was almost there when Spencer Newton and his friend passed in the opposite direction, in their spiffy green Jaguar with the top down. They looked the same, in their designer shades with the breeze blowing their pale hair straight back off their foreheads. Elizabeth would be on her own in the house again.

Down on the beach there was a small group of people gathered around a trailer hitched to the Beams’ jeep. They were wrestling with the transfer of a boat from it to the sea. Tom and Karyn were there, and two other adults, and a fringe of children and teenagers milled around ignoring instructions and loudly contributing their own.

John had been wondering where his daughters were. Ivy and Lucas weren’t in the group, but he caught sight of Leonie in her black swimsuit. He strolled across from where he had been sitting on the steps up to his house. ‘Can I lend a hand here?’

‘Sure, thanks. Grab a hold,’ Tom called over his shoulder. From the driver’s seat of the jeep Elliot shouted a warning and backed the trailer closer to the water. A wave ran up and slapped against the wheels, and the younger children danced around with pleasure at being soaked.

Karyn introduced John to the newcomers, Richard and Shelly Beam. Their three children were pointed out to him.

‘Is this the complete family now?’

Richard grinned, showing a strong resemblance to his brother. ‘Nope. There’s Clayton and Gina and their two still to come. Mike and Anne are in Europe, of course.’

Leonie was on the opposite side of the trailer. When she lifted her eyes to meet John’s she saw that he had acquired the beginnings of a sun-tan and some of the lines of strain had faded from his face. Elliot was still easing the trailer deeper into the water. Leonie looked away, to where Marian had come up to watch the proceedings.

When the trailer had gone far enough Tom directed them to put their shoulders to the boat’s fibreglass hull again. They gave a concerted heave and a shout of triumph as it slid off the trailer and the keel scraped the sand in shallow water.

‘Push her out,’ Tom commanded and they ran it forward into deeper water where it floated free. Children were already swarming under the tarpaulin cover and Elliot was easing the jeep forwards up the shelving sand. John and Leonie were left alone, separated by the space where the boat had been. Among all the cries and laughter and diamond-glittering splashes of water Leonie could hear nothing but a question vibrating between them with a tuning-fork’s meticulous note.

It was absurd to go on meeting and deflecting each other.

In the time that had elapsed since their lunch together she had convinced herself that a question could have two answers. If she and Tom didn’t love each other as they once had done, they were still friends and they were knitted together by history and shared experiences. It was possible to live a calm and ordered life surrounded by siblings and their children, and to take pleasure in work and companionship.

Even as she made these measured decisions a current of revolt ran through her, snapping her shoulders back and her head upright. The opposite answer reverberated deafeningly in her head. It wasn’t
enough
of a life. Not enough, not enough. It was like a sour chorus to the song of the beach.

She didn’t think Tom even noticed that she handed her allegiance over to him. She was just here at the beach as a part of a landscape, not even making the foreground of the picture.

With three precise and deliberate steps Leonie crossed the barrier of stones to John’s side. She felt gleeful and reckless, as she had done with the kiss in the car-park, and at the same time as awkward as a teenager. Dressed only in a swimsuit she couldn’t find anywhere to put her hands, so she crossed her arms in front of her stomach, cupping her elbows in a stance that reminded her of May Duhane. John was no less fenced around than she was herself – almost all she knew about him was to do with his daughters and his widowhood, and the cautious path he steered through the thickets of responsibility.

A greedy longing to know more, to excavate him and at the same time to be dug out of herself, suddenly blazed up in her like ravenous hunger after a long swim in the sea. She said coolly, ‘Would you like to come for a walk this evening? There’s a good one along the cliff to the next bay and over the causeway to another island. You can do it when the tide’s right.’

Lucas and Ivy were rowing back to the beach. At least, Lucas was rowing; he bent over the oars and the muscles in his back and arms smoothly bunched and lengthened. Ivy lay back in the stem of the boat, one leg lazily hooked over the side. She looked creamy and sated, and at the same time triumphant.
Just-fucked
was the phrase that came to Leonie’s mind.

John watched them until Lucas shipped the oars and let the boat drift in to the shallows. Ivy sketched a little wave at her father. Leonie knew that John was also weighing the significance of small signals and the major movements they flagged.

Marian had gathered a flock of children around her and was beckoning Leonie. Tom and the jeep had driven away.

‘Yes, we could do that,’ John said. His voice was light, giving nothing away.

Five

The stagnant air of Doone’s bedroom breathed and sighed in May’s ears. Hannah Fennymore’s two books and Doone’s diary lay in a row beside her on the bed quilt. She let her chin fall on her chest as she stared at them, trying to imagine Doone putting her writing aside and picking up the whaling story. To mimic her actions, as if it might help her understanding, she opened the book herself.

The
Dolphin
’s was an uneventful voyage for the first six weeks. No whales were sighted, but favouring winds assisted the ship’s progress across the Atlantic and Captain Gunnell gave orders for the four whaleboats to be lowered from their davits at regular intervals so that the boat steerers and oarsmen might at least practise their seaborne manoeuvres as often as was practicable.

William Corder learned his part in the boat as readily as he had about the decks and masts of the
Dolphin
. He was assigned the position of stroke oarsman in the third mate’s crew, from which place he bent to pull his oar at the mate’s command, assisted with handling the small mast, and when the lightweight, sharp-ended craft took in water in rough seas it was his allotted task to bail her out with a canvas bucket stowed for that purpose among the copious whaling gear. The rest of the paraphernalia looked threatening enough to William – there were the tubs with their great coiled lengths of line, the razor-edged harpoon and long lances to be plunged deep into the creature’s innards, and the cutting spades with which great incisions could be sliced in the blubber for holding the whale fast while it was towed back to the ship’s side.

The boat was headed by the mate, who directed their turns and twists with the steering oar while the boat steerer pulled from the forward thwart until they could draw close enough to their target for him to jump up in the bow and throw his harpoon. The four oarsmen rowed for their livelihood, but always with their backs blindly turned to the scene in front, for they were forbidden even to glance over their shoulders at what might lie ahead of them. Their only clues were the headsman’s guttural commands and imprecations, and the light of terror or exultation in his eyes.

Even in practice it was deadly hard work, and William and the other green hands were in no doubt that the difficulties would multiply when there were whales in the offing. They listened with apprehension to the able seamen’s tales of closing in on their quarry – the great sperm whales. They heard how an ugly whale could stove in a boat with one thrash of his flukes and of the perils of a ‘Nantucket sleigh ride’ – when a running whale would drive across the surface of the water, dragging the boat and its occupants in a wild dash in its wake.

The third mate was named Matthias Plant, a Nantucket native and a great veteran for a whaleman, being almost forty years of age, swarthy from the sun and with a body like one of his own barrels of whale oil. Matthias had been married for twenty years and out of that span of time he had lived just weeks, in all totalling barely thirteen months, at home with his wife. The rest of the time he had been at sea. It was Matthias’s pleasure to regale William with stories of the chase and the catch, embellished with the most vivid and gory of details. William heard him out with his invariable courtesy, and tried manfully to hide his fears behind an expression of calm unconcern.

In truth, the rowing and paddling and hauling on the mast and sail under Matthias’s brutal direction was an exhausting trial for William. His narrow shoulders and slender arms were racked with the effort, and when the order came at last to row for the
Dolphin
, riding a mile or so distant like an ivory ship on a sapphire sea, he would have uttered a cheer if he had possessed sufficient voice for the task.

‘We’ll make a whaleman of you yet, my little parlour-maid,’ Matthias would roar and clap the boy heartily on his aching back.

After these expeditions William returned almost with pleasure to the shipboard routine of two-hour turns at the helm and as look-out at one of the three mastheads. He was keen-eyed, and it was one of the few joys available to him to stand at the high vantage-point and scan the glassy miles of water for a whale’s spout. In his commanding position, with the ship beneath him riding along under easy sail, he felt like a giant striding across the waves. He could even lean forward, his eyes stinging with the lick of the salt wind, and believe he wished for the spout of a whale as much as for the sight of another ship that might contain his true quarry.

The
Dolphin
was just two days short of a full two months out of Nantucket when Captain Gunnell took the observation and worked up the latitude before announcing to the second mate that the ship would cross the Line, or the equator of the Earth, at about sundown that evening.

The mate sagely nodded his head, then spoke to the helmsman who happened to be one of the green hands. ‘Do you hear the Captain? I believe that Old Neptune himself will be coming aboard tonight. Every whaler who passes through his empire must pay homage to him and from every first-timer he extracts the proper dues.’

‘What dues may these be?’ the sailor asked, thinking anxiously of his supplies of tobacco and other small luxuries safe in his sea-chest in the forecastle.

‘That’s not for me to predict,’ the mate answered. ‘All I know is that the old man will be aboard this ship tonight.’

As soon as the wheel was relieved, the man scurried below to spread the news to the other first-timers. William sat tight in the narrow space of his bunk, the curtain partly drawn, as was his habit, to afford the smallest protection from the squalid conditions of the forecastle. He heard the rumours and assertions of the other hands with misgiving. At sundown, as the last watch came down from the mastheads, the green hands heard the hatch over their heads slammed closed. They were shut tight in their living quarters until such time as Old Neptune came aboard.

‘I see a ship,’ the mate loudly cried out overhead. ‘The Emperor himself!’

Up on the deck, the biggest and broadest of the able seamen had padded his chest with mats, wrapped himself round in a white sheet from the Captain’s cabin and pulled on top of the whole a great dark coat blackened with smoke from the try-pot. He had a wild nest of hair made of frayed yarn decked with seaweed, whiskers of the same, and a cloth mask that covered all but his eyes and nose. In his hand he held a four-pronged harpoon. Against the dimming sky and the limitless horizon he made an alarming sight.

In the meantime the other hands dragged up from below decks the largest of the blubber tubs, a great vessel they filled to the brim with salt water. Over the lip of it, secured at the other end to the summit of the brick furnace where the whale-oil was boiled out of the blubber, a broad plank was fixed. The Captain’s own chair was brought from his cabin and set next to the near end of the plank, and Old Neptune took his seat upon the throne.

In a great roar he demanded that the first of the youngsters be brought up without delay.