The Pearl in the Ice Read online

  ‘We have men to do those jobs, Marina.’

  ‘But I’m as good as any man.’

  ‘And so you are. But those men have families who need the money they’re paid for working on my ship. Mrs Brown has another baby on the way.’

  ‘Can I come to Portsmouth and see you off ?’

  Her father’s eyes clouded, then. ‘No, Marina. It’s easier if you stay here . . .’

  He turned away. He really was going.

  Marina grabbed his sleeve. ‘But I want to see your ship,’ she blurted out. ‘I want to see the Neptune.’ She rattled off the specifics of the boat – Edward’s endless droning on sometimes came in useful. She gave an accurate account of the Neptune’s tonnage, its speed, its hull shape. She even pulled out the length of rope she kept in her tunic pocket. Anything to keep him from leaving for a few more minutes. ‘You said that every good sailor can tie a hundred knots. Well, I can! Look!’ But her hands got in a muddle under her father’s intent gaze. She felt her cheeks get hotter until her father took the length of tangled rope out of her hands. He gently unknotted it and she watched closely as his hands threaded the rope through several loops.

  ‘Practise this one: it’s called the pearl fishers’ knot,’ he said, handing it back to her. ‘You know that, at sea, the ropes are rarely dry when you need to tie or untie them. This knot works when the rope is swollen with water. It’s hard because of the double loop. Especially if it’s freezing and you are wearing fur-lined gloves.’

  Marina thought of the box which had arrived yesterday morning. R. SOLOMON AND SONS, WHITECHAPEL had been stamped on the lid. FURRIER.

  ‘This knot saved my life on a remote island one winter, and brought me something very special.’ Her father frowned and whispered something that made no sense. ‘A pearl from beneath the ice.’

  Marina could see from his eyes that he was journeying alone amongst his thoughts. She didn’t want him to leave her a moment before he needed to.

  ‘Was that when you lost your toe?’ she asked him. She pulled on his sleeve to bring him back to her. She loved her father’s stories, but he only rarely gave her glimpses of his seafaring life and, like being allowed just a tiny piece of chocolate, it only left her wanting more.

  He looked at her, surprised, as if he were waking up to find himself in a strange room. ‘The very place. Almost lost my nose, too.’ He tweaked her nose between his finger and thumb. ‘Happy times, eh? Anyway, you train yourself to do that fiendish knot. And by the time you can do it with your eyes closed, I’ll be home again.’

  Her father put on his cap in a smooth, practised movement: his transformation was complete. He was all Commander Denham; no part of her father remained.

  ‘Do I have to go to that dreadful school? I don’t want to learn to sew or how to dance. If I must go to school, let me go to Edward’s. It’s in a forest and they write poetry under the trees and make their own chairs from the wood they gather.’

  Her father didn’t turn around. His voice sounded smaller than usual. ‘You have spent your childhood without a mother, Marina. No one to teach you how to be a wife or a mother. You can’t even wear a dress. How else will you be fit for the world if you don’t learn these things?’

  With those words, Marina broke the surface of her unhappiness. She could breathe. She could speak. ‘I don’t want to wear a dress! I don’t want be a lady drinking tea in the parlour! I want to be useful. I want to have a job. I want to read the newspapers and have opinions and . . . and . . . march for votes for women!’

  Her father turned then, a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. Marina could see he was stifling a laugh. ‘Work? March for votes? For women? What has Ivy been reading in those newspapers?’

  ‘But, Father! Ivy says women will get the vote by next year.’

  ‘Giving votes to housekeepers and parlourmaids?’ He shuddered. ‘Whatever next?’ He picked up his kitbag and a large wooden case. It rattled alarmingly.

  Ivy appeared from the kitchen, her plain face blotched, her wiry hair escaping from her hairpins. She dabbed her eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘Go safely, Commander,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll pray for your safe passage across the Bay of Biscay.’ And she shivered. ‘Oooh, I couldn’t even make it past the pier at Margate when I went with my sister last Whitsuntide. How you manage on those raging waves . . .’ The Commander frowned. Ivy stopped.

  And as the clock in the hall delivered its six chimes, Commander Denham, ever punctual, bent to kiss Marina on the top of her head. Marina closed her eyes, willing him to still be there when she opened them.

  The front door slammed. The clock ticked on.

  3

  Ivy tutted. ‘Well, he’s gone.’

  Marina opened her eyes.

  ‘And who knows if he’ll ever come back.’ Ivy shook her head. ‘It’s a sorry day,’ she said as she turned to go down the stairs. ‘Are you ready for tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘Can you go and check your uniform list and put your clothes in the trunk? Mind you do it carefully. I’ve got all my jobs to do before shutting up the house. It will just be bread and butter for tea. The Commander had the last of the cutlets for lunch.’

  ‘I’ll keep out of your way,’ Marina said, feeling more wretched than she had thought possible.

  ‘There’s a good girl.’ Ivy looked relieved. ‘And have a bath, will you? You look filthy.’

  There were strict rules about drawing a bath in the Denham household which made the whole process an unpleasant affair. The water was not only to be cold, but there was to be very little of it. In fact, after his wife had left seven years before, Commander Denham had painted a thick red line on the inside of the deep bath: it was to be filled no higher. But today, angry with her father for leaving for Portsmouth, Marina turned on the taps – hot as well as cold – as far as they would go and watched with a thrilling sense of defiance as the water gushed out.

  She put her foot up on the side of the bath and inspected it. There was a patch of scaly skin on her right foot. Had it got bigger since the morning when she had pulled on her socks? She couldn’t be sure. She prodded it with her finger. It didn’t look sore but the skin itched and burned, like bad chilblains. It had kept her awake last night.

  She folded her clothes neatly and put them on the stool. The water thundered into the bath. It was half full already, the water blurring the line of red enamel paint. How she had hated sitting in what seemed like a thimbleful of water. Today she would bathe like an Egyptian queen with hot water up to her neck.

  The minute she climbed over the side of the bath and her foot touched the water, it stopped itching. She sank down into the water, looking up at the large lead cisterns which had been installed by Commander Denham for his bride thirteen years before. Marina had very few memories of her mother, and the memories she did have had been dulled by time. She shut her eyes as her limbs floated around her. She called up a hazy vision of a pale face with large dark eyes. There was long dark hair, like trailing seaweed. Ropes of pearls that hung down over the stiff boned bodice of a green silk dress with lace ruffles, like white caps on waves. And two canes topped with mother-of-pearl leaning against her chair, which her mother used if she had to walk. But Marina couldn’t remember her walking, only being carried by her father. When he lifted her up, Marina could see the many large metal clasps on her mother’s heavy black boots. She had always been frightened of those boots and had had nightmares where they became fixed to her own feet and pinched and squeezed her until the tears came. However hard she tried, she couldn’t take them off.

  Marina lay back and let her legs float slowly upwards.

  The water rushed into her ears – such a beautiful sound. She closed her eyes and let her face sink under the surface.

  A bright image floated up in front of her.

  Her mother’s face looking down at her.

  Marina wanted to reach out and touch that face.

  But this was just a memory, from the time before the red line had been painted on the enamel. It was from before her mother had left. It was from the time when her mother – although an invalid – had lifted Marina over the edge of the bath and lowered her on to the surface of the water. Marina remembered that feeling of the water suddenly on her back and crying out in alarm, but her mother had held her fast. And so, reassured, Marina had relaxed and floated on the gallons of warm water, kicking her little legs and reaching out her hands to try and touch the ropes of pearls that hung down from her mother’s neck. Her mother had smiled.

  And now, the water deep and warm, other images crowded in – she couldn’t be sure if they were real or invented. Because there was her mother’s face above, but it was blurred, as if it were being seen through water. And surely she was not remembering the sensation of having a heavy weight on her chest as if a stone had been put there . . . Or that she was sinking. Marina shook her head and the water in the deep bath gurgled in her ears. But she could still remember, or imagine, her mother’s small hand on her chest all those years ago, pushing Marina under the water. Marina remembered – it did feel like a memory – that she struggled. She couldn’t breathe. She tried to cry out but the water filled her mouth and anyway her mother was still smiling and, although normally so frail and weak, her hand could have been made from tempered steel. Marina remembered that she couldn’t break free. Her chest had ached with the desperate need to breathe . . . ‘Mama . . .’ But her cry was silenced by bathwater and her frightened tears could not be seen.

  Her mother’s hand was snatched away. A rush of water, a gasp of air. Marina had been pulled up, coughing and spluttering, from the water.

  Her father!

  ‘Annabel!’ he had cried. ‘What are you doing?’

  From the safety of her father’s arms, Marina saw how her
mother’s eyes had clouded and her beautiful face had become sullen. She said nothing. ‘She’s just a child, Annabel,’ her father had whispered. ‘You promised me you would never . . .’

  Her mother’s deep green eyes had flashed their defiance as she wound her pearls tightly round her fingers. Still she spoke no word.

  A sharp pain stabbed Marina’s chest. She was still submerged! She sat up abruptly. The water rushed off her head and body, slopping over the sides of the bath. She drew in a huge gulp of air. How long had she been under the water? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? But that was ridiculous. No one could hold their breath for that long.

  She hopped out of the bath and snatched at the bath sheet, wrapping it around herself. She reached down to release the large metal ball which acted as a plug. There were goosepimples on her skin, but she didn’t feel cold.

  4

  The morning dawned with fearsome brightness.

  ‘The day of my execution,’ Marina said to the ceiling. Perhaps she could just refuse to get up? What could Ivy do then? But she knew Ivy was ordered to pack up the house today, before she went to her sister’s in Kent.

  And Edward was already knocking loudly on the front door. She hauled herself out of bed and dressed in the hated school uniform. First, the regulation calf-length brown serge skirt. Then the regulation blue cambric blouse. The four regulation winter vests and the dancing slippers were already in her trunk. None of these ghastly items had any decent-sized pockets. And as for the ridiculous boater which scratched her scalp . . . She pushed her sailcloth trousers and tunic into the blue sailor’s kitbag she had demanded for her last birthday. Perhaps she could wear them on Sundays to go walking in the countryside. Perhaps she could walk as far as Edward’s school. The thrilling seafaring tale her father had written for her, which told of a lonely mariner pursued by a kraken, was stuffed on top of these comfortable, practical clothes. She pulled the drawstring tight and heaved the bag on to her shoulder.

  She dutifully allowed Ivy to hug her and tell her how smart she looked, and how her ‘dear mother would be so proud’. And then, moments later, still chewing on her crust of bread, she was outside on the pavement with her trunk. She and Edward were to be driven to the train station by Mr Mount’s chauffeur. They were to take the same train; Edward’s school in the forest was the stop before Marina’s sorry lady-making destination.

  ‘You look a total idiot,’ Edward said, good-naturedly. He tipped her boater off her head on to the paving stones. Marina wanted to jump on it. She eyed Edward’s loose cotton shirt and corduroy trousers with envy.

  ‘Everything I wear itches,’ she muttered, bending over to scratch that patch of skin on her foot.

  Mr Mount appeared. Edward’s father was a short, stout man with thinning blond hair and a boyish face. He wore a crumpled linen suit, no waistcoat, and, instead of the more commonplace tie and starched collar worn by men of his age and class, he had knotted a flowered silk scarf around his neck. This declared he did not work in a bank or a government department but that he was an artist – a good one, apparently; certainly his paintings sold for enough to pay for his large house, cook, maid and nanny, as well as the new motor carriage and chauffeur.

  Marina wiped her hand on her skirt before shaking his hand. ‘Good morning, sir,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Now, now, none of that “sir” nonsense!’ He beamed. ‘Why not call me Jonty?’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly,’ Marina’s eyes widened.

  Edward laughed at her shocked expression. ‘Because of what your father would say?’

  Marina nodded.

  ‘Don’t expect he’ll hear you,’ Mr Mount said. ‘Go on! Try it!’ He winked at her.

  ‘Good morning . . .’ Marina felt her cheeks get hot. ‘Er . . . Jonty.’

  ‘There! You’ve done it!’ He called to the chauffeur. ‘Stryde! Get these trunks loaded!’

  The man touched his cap and heaved the luggage into the open boot.

  Mr Mount checked his watch as they climbed into the back of the motor carriage. ‘Plenty of time, plenty of time,’ he muttered to himself.

  ‘Stryde likes to let the engine run before we get going,’ Edward explained. ‘He says it clears out the pipes. We can be sitting here for ten minutes if he thinks there’s too much dust.’

  ‘No need to panic just yet.’ Mr Mount looked anxious. ‘Edward. Have you brought your sandwiches? And the cake your mother made at midnight when she was so restless? She wouldn’t give any to me! Said you’d be hungry on the train. I was hungry last night! Oh, I remember when I was your age I was hungry all the time. Didn’t matter how much I ate. Pudding. Potatoes. Seconds of everything. Thirds if I could. Cleaned my plate. And still I wanted more! And I was thin as a pin! Can you believe it?’ He patted his stomach and smiled. ‘Ah. Youth.’

  Marina thought that she would happily give up eating seconds of Ivy’s lumpy mashed potato to be a grown-up and able to do as she wanted, but felt that she probably shouldn’t say anything.

  The engine noise increased and the motor car moved forward. This was the life! How modern. How new. If only she were going to Portsmouth instead of to the hated Havering Ladies’ College. She looked out of the window at the stucco houses, as large as battleships. What would she give to be on the Neptune with her father.

  The moment the motor carriage drew up at Waterloo, Mr Mount’s attention was taken up by bellowing for a porter to get the luggage into the station. ‘That’s right, my good man!’ he cried. ‘We’re in a dashed hurry, so no messing about.’

  The concourse was a baffling churn of people. ‘Wait here while I get the tickets,’ Mr Mount boomed. ‘Edward, see the porter doesn’t wander off. Those trunks need to stay right here for now. And you’d better look at the board and find the platform for the Winchester train. It won’t be long! It’s due to leave in seven minutes. Seven minutes!’ he tutted as he hurried away.

  A group of soldiers walked past, laughing. ‘You? Brave?’ one of them jeered at the youngest, a sleepy-eyed young man. ‘You’d run away from yer own shadow!’

  The young man’s cheeks flamed. ‘I’ll stand and fight,’ he muttered to himself. ‘You see if I don’t!’

  ‘Gawd ’elp us.’ An old man with grey whiskers took off his hat and scratched his head. ‘If that’s all that’s saving us from the Mordavians!’

  ‘Platform seven.’ Edward scanned the departures board. ‘Leaves in five minutes. Here’s father with the tickets.’

  Mr Mount hurried them on to the platform and explained to the porter where he was to take the trunks. He gave the man a sixpence, patted Edward on the shoulder, but then, overcome with emotion, pulled him in for a hug.

  Edward pushed him away. ‘Stop it!’

  ‘I can’t help it! I’ll miss you, Edward. I’m going back to a house full of women! Who will protect me from all that endless female chatter? I’ll need a box of wax earplugs!’

  Marina thought this monstrously unfair and was about to speak up – tell Mr Mount that she had never heard him say anything remotely interesting himself – but then remembered that Ivy had told her to thank him for taking her to the station.

  ‘I’ve got to go!’ Edward stepped back.

  ‘All right, all right. You go. The train is there. The trunks are being loaded. Nothing can go wrong now!’ Mr Mount dabbed his eyes with a large handkerchief.

  ‘Embarrassing or what?’ Edward muttered, walking quickly away. ‘I do wish he wouldn’t do that. Did you see those soldiers laughing?’

  ‘Train to Winchester! Platform seven.’ A guard in a trim suit waved a small red flag. Steam billowed from beneath the engine, accompanied by the shush of the pistons.

  ‘Quick, let’s get on here.’ Edward tugged at Marina’s sleeve as he jumped up on to the steps of the nearest carriage. ‘We can find our seats when we’re on.’

  ‘Train to Portsmouth! Platform six!’ A shrill whistle blew.

  Marina’s head snapped round to see the train on the next platform. The guard had started to wave his flag. Another guard was walking up the platform shutting the doors. A group of sailors suddenly started running towards an open one.