The Forget-Me-Not Summer (24 page)

The secret hope that Mrs Grimshaw had cheerful tidings to impart began to fade. ‘Yes,' Miranda said, her voice no more than a whisper. ‘Go on.'

The story did not take long in the telling. Apparently Missie had had cause to go with her employer to a neighbouring island, on plantation business. Once there, she bought some of the shellfish for sale in the market whilst Julian and Gerald's father went off with his manager, leaving Missie to wander around the harbour. True to her promise, she began to ask natives of the island whether they knew anything of the
Pride of the Sea
. Several of them did; indeed they seemed surprised that Missie had not heard. ‘She foundered in a typhoon, two days out from her last port of call,' the harbour master had told her. ‘Lost with all hands. There was one survivor, but he was just being given a lift from one island to another, so was not a member of the crew. But it's all history; it happened ages ago, and memories are short. No one was truly sorry that the
Pride
had gone, and the survivor, Ned Truin, said that for the short time he was on board most of the crew were drunk. They'd taken on a consignment of rum and someone had broached a bottle or a barrel, I don't know which. If you want more details, Ned Truin's working aboard a fishing boat which will be in harbour before dark. These old seamen never go far from the sea, but when he comes ashore I'll point him out and he'll tell you the story as he experienced it.'

Missie had sought out Mr Grimshaw and explained that she owed it to her English friends to get the full story, and Mr Grimshaw had agreed to delay their departure from the island until she had had a chance to do so.

The full story, as heard from Ned Truin, was a mixture of foolishness, downright wickedness and bad weather, for though Ned admitted that most of the crew were drunk and incapable, he thought there was little they could have done to save the ship once the typhoon had hit them. Within moments the sea, which had been blue and relatively calm, had become a raging inferno of ten-foot white-capped waves, which smashed down on the
Pride
until she was little better than matchwood. When the ship went down – largely in pieces – he himself had managed to cling on to a spar. He had had a terrible and frightening time over a period of two days and nights, for sharks were busy in the vicinity and he thought he had only been saved from being torn apart by managing to scramble into the ship's dinghy, whence he was rescued at last by a passing fishing boat.

Naturally, Missie's first hope had been that Arabella might already have left the ship, but when she asked Ned Truin if he knew of anyone's doing so he could only shrug. Mr Grimshaw had explained that they were searching for a woman who they believed had been kidnapped by the captain and his mate, but again Ned Truin could not say for certain what had happened on board the ill-omened ship before the typhoon blew up. ‘I had only been aboard two days when the storm came,' he had told Missie. ‘I realised the crew were a bad lot, but that was all.'

Mrs Grimshaw rose from her chair as her sad story
ended and went to sit beside Miranda on the couch, putting a comforting arm around her shoulders. ‘My poor child, I've dreaded giving you this appalling news ever since Missie's letter and the report from the harbour master arrived in the mail this morning. At first Mr Grimshaw wanted to keep it from you, wanted to let you to continue to hope, but in his heart I'm sure he knew that to say nothing would have been cruel in the long run.'

Miranda did not speak, but the slow tears formed and fell, formed and fell. She knew Mrs Grimshaw's arm was round her shoulders, but she could not feel it. Arabella could not have drowned! She would not believe it, no matter how convincing the story. But Steve was speaking – she must listen. ‘But suppose, like Missie, Miranda's mum escaped and hid herself away whilst the men were loading or unloading somewhere, and then could not be found?' Steve said at last, and even in her deep distress Miranda could hear the quiver in his voice. ‘That's possible, isn't it?'

Mrs Grimshaw heaved a deep sigh. ‘You must understand, my dears, that the islands which the
Pride
visited are all small, with few inhabitants. It seems to both my husband and myself highly unlikely that she could have got ashore unseen by anyone and stayed hidden for even the smallest amount of time. If such a thing had happened someone must have helped her, and why should such a person not admit to their good deed? Saving anyone from the sea and from men such as Captain Hogg is surely something to boast about, not to keep quiet? I'm afraid, my dear, that such hopes have no basis in reality. According to Missie's letter, my brother-in-law carried out a rigorous search on all the islands within reach of
the one to which Ned Truin was taken, and found no indication that any stranger had landed on any of them.'

There was a silence. Miranda sat on the couch as if turned to stone, her wide eyes fixed unseeingly on Mrs Grimshaw's face as though it were a picture on the cinema screen; as though if she stared hard enough she would see her beautiful golden-haired mother being pulled ashore and rescued.

Steve, having given the matter some thought, went over to Miranda and knelt beside her, taking her cold hands and squeezing them comfortingly. ‘No one can be certain that your mam was still aboard,' he said bracingly. ‘And no woman's body was cast ashore. Isn't that proof of a sort that she wasn't aboard when the
Pride
went down?'

‘No; Missie said there were – were sharks,' Miranda mumbled. She gave a convulsive shudder, then straightened and glared defiantly from Steve's anxious face to Mrs Grimshaw's. ‘I can't – and won't – believe Arabella is dead,' she said loudly. ‘If she is, I'm sure I would know in my heart, because Arabella and I were close, even though we had our bad moments when we shouted at one another and – and said things we didn't mean.'

‘Of course you did; mothers and daughters are always falling out and then falling in again,' Mrs Grimshaw said comfortingly. ‘And I'm sure you're right; but at least we now know that it is useless to try to find the
Pride of the Sea
or any member of her crew. However, there are a great many islands in the Caribbean. Your mother might have swum from the wreckage to any one of those islands, so we still have a great deal of ground to cover before we need give up.'

Miranda gave the older woman a watery smile. ‘My mother can't swim, any more than I can,' she said sadly. ‘She wasn't a very practical woman, not in that way. But you're right; I shall never give up hope of finding her alive.'

After Mrs Grimshaw had left them Steve looked at his friend's woebegone face, and decided that she must not be allowed to mope. After all, her mother had disappeared a long while ago, and though his pal claimed to think of Arabella every day Steve knew that this was probably her conscience talking. She had entered the world of work, was meeting new people and changing from an awkward child to a striking young woman. Her carroty curls had darkened to a shade between chestnut and auburn, the dusting of golden freckles across her nose gave warmth to her complexion, and she was developing a proper figure. Like it or not, he was sure her obsession with her mother's disappearance had begun to fade, though now of course the discovery that the
Pride of the Sea
had been lost with all hands had brought Arabella to the forefront of her daughter's mind once more. Probably she'll never quite lose the hope that her mother will miraculously turn up again and claim her, Steve told himself. But the Grimshaws are good people; they'll see that she lives her own life, and stops living in a fool's paradise.

Steve took his coat from its peg, slipped it on and helped Miranda into hers. ‘You were goin' to buy us fish 'n' chips, Miss Moneybags,' he reminded her. ‘Oh, but we've ate the buns what were intended for our pudding, so shall us pop along to the market and buy a couple of them big oranges you're so fond of?'

Miranda shrugged. ‘I don't care,' she said listlessly as they left the flat and clattered down the iron stairs.

Steve blew out a steaming breath into the icy air, then glanced up at the lowering grey sky above. ‘Reckon we'll have snow before morning,' he remarked. ‘If there's a decent fall, shall us take my old sledge up to Simonswood and see how far we can travel on it?'

‘Whatever you like,' Miranda said shortly, and Steve couldn't help giving an inward grin. She was clutching her unhappiness to her bosom, trying to make him see that the news Mrs Grimshaw had given them had affected her deeply. Well, he knew it had, of course, but he also knew that she was in the same position after Mrs Grimshaw's news as she had been before it. True, she now knew that the
Pride of the Sea
had foundered, and that there was a possibility that her mother had drowned with the rest. But if you were honest she was really no worse off than she had been before Mrs Grimshaw's revelations.

Steve sighed. ‘Miranda? If it snows all night . . .'

He was interrupted. ‘Snow? What does it matter? I don't care if it snows ink,' Miranda said dully. ‘I keep thinking of my poor Arabella, struggling in an icy sea, perhaps even seeing approaching sharks . . .'

Her voice ended on a pathetic hiccup, but this was too much for the practical Steve. ‘Oh, for God's sake, be your age and use your brain,' he said crossly. He took hold of her hand, tucking it into his elbow. ‘However your mam died – if she
did
die – it wasn't in icy water. Okay, this typhoon thing blew up, but the water would be warm, probably quite pleasant . . .'

Miranda tore her hand away from his and turned on
him, eyes flashing. ‘How dare you speak to me like that when I'm in such distress! I hate you, Steve Mickleborough, you're cruel and wicked and unfeeling! If it was your mother eaten by sharks you wouldn't be so offhand about it.'

Steve gave a smothered giggle; he couldn't help it. Just the thought of his cosy, smiling mother struggling in a Mersey full of enormous sharks was so absurd that he could only laugh. ‘I can just see me mam punching a shark right on its hooter,' he said, trying to choke back the laughter and failing dismally. ‘Anyway, you don't know that your mam was eaten by sharks. I thought you believed she was still alive and kicking somewhere. You said . . .'

Miranda rounded on him, her cheeks flushed with anger and her tear-filled eyes bright with rage. ‘I
do
think she's alive, I do, I do,' she said vehemently. ‘And you're cruel and hateful to scoff.'

Once again, laughter bubbled up in Steve's throat. ‘If we're going to talk about scoff, let's buy them fish 'n' chips, take 'em back to the flat and scoff them, instead of scoffing at each other,' he said. ‘Don't be an idiot, Miranda. You can't have it both ways: either you're going to mourn your mother as dead, which is understandable, or you're going to insist she's alive and safe on some island or other, but simply hasn't managed to get in touch. Now tell me, which is it to be?'

Miranda tightened her lips and said nothing. She speeded up, and when the fish and chip shop was reached she joined the queue, fishing out the money the stallholder had given her. Steve chatted amiably as they inched up towards the counter, saying that he would buy
a bottle of Corona to go with their meal, and asking Miranda whether she would like him to buy a slab of cake to take the place of the buns they had eaten earlier.

Miranda, however, still clearly in the grip of annoyance, tightened her lips once more and said nothing, and Steve fell silent as well. In fact they bought the chips, a bottle of cherryade and a slab of plain cake and carried everything back to the flat without exchanging another word. When they got there Miranda unlocked the door, ushered Steve inside, and divided the fish and chips between two china plates. Then she went into the small pantry – it was more like a cupboard – and produced salt and vinegar and a couple of glasses for the cherryade, all of this in complete silence. Steve, beginning to be really annoyed with his old friend, decided to follow her example and did not say anything either whilst they polished off the food and drink in record time, for it had been a long day and they were both extremely hungry.

When all the food was gone and the kettle hopping on the hob, Steve used half the water to wash up their plates and cutlery. Then he turned to Miranda. ‘I can see you're still in a nasty mood, but I was brought up to be polite even when others were rude,' he said calmly. ‘Good night, Miranda, and thank you for my share of the fish and chips. I'm sorry if I upset you by saying the wrong thing, but I truly meant it for the best. You're me bezzie, so that means I ought to be able to speak me mind and trust you not to take it wrong. Will you forgive me?' He had already put on his coat and hat and had his hand on the doorknob waiting for – indeed expecting – Miranda to speak, but she said nothing. Steve sighed. He supposed she had a reason for behaving so badly but
none of it was his fault, so why was she taking her ill humour out on him? It was scarcely because of him that the
Pride of the Sea
had foundered. All he had really done was try to make her see that she was behaving illogically and making her situation worse. He turned to open the door and glanced back over his shoulder, but Miranda was now at the sink collecting the plates and mugs to replace them on the dresser, and took no notice of him even when snowflakes blew in through the doorway. She just stood with her back to him, stacking the plates, and he felt maliciously pleased when the cold wind roared into the room and attacked Miranda's pinafore-clad form. He saw her give a little shiver, and for a moment was tempted to go back and give her a hug. Perhaps he had been wrong to try to make her choose between accepting that her mother was dead and believing that she was still alive, but even as he hesitated, wanting to turn back, his pride rose up and refused to let him eat any more humble pie than he had already digested. He went out on to the top of the steps, closing the door softly and gently behind him. She'll have come to her senses by tomorrow, he told himself. Poor old girl. Although we've all been half expecting such news, it's obviously hit her hard. But she's sensible, is Miranda; I bet by tomorrow she'll be full of plans. She'll talk about setting off for the West Indies as soon as summer comes, and why not? If she doesn't go soon the war they're all talking about will start and she won't be able to go anywhere.