A Greater World (5 page)

His thoughts returned to what had happened back at home. It was like watching the moving pictures. The images moved across his brain but, unlike the flicks, they were in vivid colour and flowed smoothly and relentlessly.

He thought about climbing onto the metal balustrade and diving into the cold wind-tossed waters below. He was a strong swimmer, so it might take him a while to die, although the cold of the water would overwhelm him soon enough, if he wasn't sucked down under the draught of the ship and crushed by the propellers. Pointless even speculating; he knew he couldn't do it, much as he wanted to. The impulse that drives some men to take their own lives was absent in his make-up.

His hair was plastered to his head, his cap so sodden he took it off and stuffed it in his pocket. As he did so his hand closed around the small stone with the hole in the middle that had been his brother's. He ran his hand across his face, wiping the water away and watched the violent sea and the darkening sky.

Elizabeth headed for the upper deck. Most of the passengers had retired to their cabins, so she thought there was a good chance she'd be undisturbed in the general room or the writing room. She was keen to avoid the woman with whom she was sharing a cabin. At least she had managed to secure a two berth rather than a four on this single class liner, although her cabin companion, Mrs Briars, talked enough for three people.

The general room was almost deserted and she settled herself into a cane settee beside one of the large brass-framed windows. She picked up a magazine and flicked through the pages without reading them, distracted and restless. The ship was rising and falling over the swollen sea and hoped she was not going to succumb to seasickness. The room smelled, as did the whole ship, of an odd mixture of linoleum polish, brass cleaner, wood varnish and coal smoke. Today it was accented with the tinge of damp wool. At the far end of the room, a man was playing dominoes with a small boy, the boy laughing loudly when the pieces fell off the table with the pitch of the ship. On an adjacent table two women were engrossed in a game of cards.

A shrill voice interrupted her solitude. 'There are you are Miss Morton. I've been looking for you everywhere! I was about to sound the alarm – I thought you'd been washed overboard!' Her laugh was like a snort.

Elizabeth tried not to show her irritation. 'No need to worry. I'm quite safe and sound and enjoying a moment of quiet.'

The woman didn't take the hint. 'I was going to suggest afternoon tea in the writing room, but you look well settled in here so I'll ask the steward for tea.' She signalled to a young man hovering in the distance. 'Pot of tea please, Reggie dear. And some of those nice cheese scones.'

'Mrs Briars, I'm about to go below.' Elizabeth said.

'Nonsense, my dear. You need to keep out of the cabin. If you lie down, you'll end up like the rest of them. They're dropping like flies! A good walk on deck would sort them all out. Lying down on a bunk makes it worse; very unsettling to the stomach with all this pitching and rolling about.'

'I'm not feeling ill at all. I was just thinking I might have a nap.'

'A nap!' The woman snorted. 'You're far too young for afternoon naps. A cup of strong tea, a nice game of cards and a brief promenade on deck, and you'll be ready for your supper!'

'I don't play cards. But it looks like there are a couple of ladies over there who do. I'm sure they'd welcome another player.'

Mrs Briars ignored the suggestion. 'I'll just have to teach you, my dear. Plenty of time to Cape Town. By the time I leave the ship you'll be a regular card sharp.'

The steward brought their tea and the card-playing ladies, the man and the boy left the room together. Elizabeth sipped her tea and tried not to think about how long there was between now and Cape Town, where Mrs Briars would be disembarking.

The older woman said, 'Tell me again, my dear - I'm so forgetful these days - how long has your father been living in Australia?'

'About eighteen months. He went soon after the war ended.'

'He finds it agreeable?'

'I believe so.'

'I do hope so, for both your sakes. But it's such a terrible distance. Mind you, so is Cape Town.'

'Have you visited Africa before?'

'No, no. When my late husband was alive he would never have entertained the idea of leaving England for the colonies. But now he's gone and my elder son taken from us in the War, Robert my younger son is keen for me to join him there.'

Elizabeth forced herself to feign interest. 'What does your son do?'

'He's a farmer. He's done very well for himself. He went out as an officer in the South African War, took a fancy to the place and never came home again.'

'Does he have a family?'

The woman snorted her laugh again. 'I do believe I may have piqued your interest, Miss Morton! And no he doesn't! One of my aims is to help him put that right by finding a nice young lady like yourself to be his help mate.'

Elizabeth blushed, more in annoyance than embarrassment. 'Really, Mrs Briars! I was certainly not fishing.'

'I'm teasing! But you would be perfect for dear Bertie. He's such a lovely boy, but much in need of a woman's steadying hand. I'm going to have to work hard over the coming days to prevail on you to break your journey in Cape Town. Who knows what might happen?' That terrible nasal laugh again.

Elizabeth forced a smile. 'There's no question of that. My father is as anxious to see me as I am sure you are to see your son.'

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of the door banging, as a man who looked as though half the Atlantic Ocean had washed over him, entered the room. He pulled off his cap and made his way to a chair on the far side of the room, only for Mrs Briars to call to him.

'Young man! Over here! Come and join us! The whole ship is going down with seasickness, so those of us still on our feet need to rally round and stick together!' She snorted again in appreciation of her own words.

The man gave a small movement of his head that was somewhere between a nod of greeting and a shake of refusal.

'Come on, it's perfectly ridiculous for three people to be sitting on opposite sides of this enormous empty room. Do join us. I'll ask the steward for more tea – and it looks like you could do with a towel and a blanket. It's nice and warm over here by the stove. I won't take no for an answer!'

Elizabeth threw him an apologetic glance then pretended to look for something in her handbag, trying to distance herself from her cabin companion's behaviour.

Looking reluctant, he nodded in greeting to Mrs Briars and crossed the salon to join them.

'Pleased to meet you, Ma'am.'

'I am Mrs Briars. And this is Miss Morton.'

'Michael Winterbourne.'

'Do sit down and stop shuffling about like that, Mr Winterton. You're making me nervous. Now where was I? Oh yes I was telling Miss Morton about my son Bertie. He has a large farm on the Cape and is one of the most important growers of wheat in the Province, you know?'

Winterbourne and Elizabeth exchanged a glance then looked away quickly. Elizabeth raised her eyes again to take in the stranger. His thick hair was weighted down with seawater and rain and he kept brushing it back nervously. The steward arrived with a towel and the man jumped to his feet and moved away from them to dry his hair roughly, embarrassed at doing this in front of the two women. Elizabeth took advantage of the moment to look at him. He was tall, lean, but strongly built, as though accustomed to physical labour. His clothes were cheap cloth, poorly cut, but he had a natural elegance that needed no help from a tailor. Finished with the towel, he resumed his place beside them. There was an uncomfortable silence. Elizabeth was immediately self-conscious, feeling small and exposed next to the man, acutely aware of his physical presence, his proximity. She was tongue-tied, awkward, shy and looked away, annoyed with herself. She wished Mrs Briars had not invited him to join them.

Mrs Briars breezed on oblivious to the changed dynamic. She addressed Winterbourne, 'I've been trying to convince Miss Morton to take a break in her journey and come and stay with us on The Cape, but she's quite determined to head on to Australia. I'll just have to keep on trying, won't I? I can't bear to let the dear girl go! We have become firm friends, haven't we, dear? And where are you headed, Mr Winterton?'

'The name's Winterbourne. I'm going to Australia. To Sydney.'

'And do you have family there? Miss Morton is joining her father there.'

Michael looked at Elizabeth and then dropped his eyes. 'No. No family.'

'So you're off to seek your fortune in the great unknown! How thrilling! And what do you plan to do when you get there?'

'I fancy trying me hand at sheep farming – but I'll do whatever they'll pay us to do Ma'am. I'm not particular as long as it's honest work.'

'But what is your profession, Mr Winterbottom?'

He sighed, deciding that correcting her again was pointless. Exchanging another glance with Elizabeth, he replied, 'I don't suppose you'd call it a profession. Back home I were a lead miner, like me father and grandfather.'

Mrs Briars raised her eyebrows. 'A lead miner? How interesting. I had no idea I would meet such a broad spread of humanity on an ocean liner. Most educational.' Then she sniffed and, twisting in her chair, turned her back on him and addressed Elizabeth.

'Miss Morton, will you be attending the harp recital tonight? The chief steward assures me that the lady harpist is quite exceptional. She's performed before the Princess Royal. And I hear Mozart may be on the menu. Isn't that marvellous?'

Before Elizabeth could respond, Winterbourne was on his feet and with a hurried nod in their direction and a mumbled 'Excuse me', left the room.

'Really my dear, how rude! He's not even waited for his tea. What a common man. Breeding will out won't it? I won't waste time making conversation with him again. No manners at all. Imagine – a miner! What is The White Star Line coming to? My dear sister did warn me about taking a ship with just one class – the old fashioned way was the best. The likes of him would never have been allowed above decks in the old days. Steerage. That's where he should be.'

Michael went back out on deck, careless that he was now half dry and about to be soaked again. His cheeks burned with humiliation. He felt diminished and belittled by the woman's snobbishness. As he paced the decks, he realised it wasn't the words of the old lady that perturbed him, but that she had humiliated him in front of the young woman. Why the hell should he care? And yet he did. Perhaps it was the way she had stood there on deck in the swell, staring out across the bucking sea? Her quiet containment and her evident sadness intrigued him. She seemed to exude an inner strength and yet also a vulnerability. He cursed his own stupidity. Why was he thinking like this about a woman, when he'd just walked away from his fiancée; when he should be atoning for what he had done to his family? And who the hell did he think he was, to even suppose that a woman like her would so much as notice a man like him?

It was impossible to sleep. The three Mancunians were sitting on the cabin floor, their backs against the lower bunks, playing a noisy game of cards. Eventually Michael leaned over the side of the bunk and called down to them.

'Look lads, can't you play in the smoking room? I can't get any shut-eye with you lot yammering on like that.'

The eldest placed a card triumphantly on the discard pile and called his brothers. The other two groaned in protest. The victor looked up and said, 'Give us a break Mick! We're nearly done. Ten minutes? I told you, you should've joined us.'

Michael pulled the pillow over his head and rolled onto his stomach. He was thinking about the woman again. He'd seen her sometimes in the dining room or walking around the decks. He always retreated but took every opportunity to observe her from afar. There was something about her. He could not put his finger on what it was. She wasn't conventionally pretty like Minnie. She had a sorrowful air, but her eyes hinted at a suppressed sense of life and energy, as though the unhappiness was a veneer. He wanted to peel it back, to see her laughing. Her face was interesting, her features fine, her eyes bright, yet the sum of them stopped short of classical beauty. Striking. That was a better word. But in a quiet way. There was nothing ostentatious about her. He liked the way her hair seemed to have a mind of its own, stray curls breaking away from her attempts to drag them into submission in a chignon. He imagined she herself was like her hair, reined in, but wanting to break out. Then he pushed the thought away. She was from another class. Well educated. Refined. Probably wealthy, judging by the cut and fabric of her clothes. Everything he was not. And besides, what was he doing thinking about a woman anyway?

He turned onto his side, trying to conjure up a picture of what Australia might be like, but his imagination failed him. Counting kangaroos was no more effective than counting sheep. He had been sleeping badly since he came on board. He couldn't blame the lads from Manchester. Tonight's game was an exception: while they were boisterous and annoying in the mornings, with their mindless banter and corny jokes, most nights they stayed in the bar until late, then slept like the dead, not even snoring. When he did manage to sleep, he dreamt of the war, his sleep troubled by the rattle of gunfire, the pounding of shellfire and the smell of sulphur. And the corpses. Everywhere the corpses. Limbs torn off, faces obliterated, bodies crushed. And every dead body he saw on the battlefields of his dreams had the face of his brother. He woke in a sweat, fearful to sleep again. Before dawn, he climbed down from his bunk and pounded the decks in a pointless circuit then stripped off and swam up and down the salt-water pool in the dark.