8

Slithering, slippery mud peeks between the auburn.
Reveals the lie.

The Indian Ocean, 1886

Tick-tock, tick-tock, clicked gently against his consciousness. Edward rolled away from the sound, clinging to unconsciousness. Sleep his only sanctuary from the endless expanse of the Indian Ocean.

Tick-tock.

Travelling through the Suez Canal had provided some distraction, to see with one’s own eyes the immensity of the endeavour to carve out a passage between continents was truly breathtaking. But the knowledge that soon his horizons would widen again as they crossed the seemingly inexhaustible ocean, caused his skin to prickle. As the sails were hauled up for the run south across the Indian Ocean, that prickle had grown into a buzz of invisible pressure that enveloped his limbs.

Tick-tock.

Restlessness had overtaken his body. His nights spent tossing and turning, his days tense and tight. Even the daily walks Mary insisted he take around the ship provided no release. Other passengers seemed to have found a stride that simply eluded him; groups of young men set up cricket matches on the deck or played cards in the sunshine, lounging calmly. Edward felt he might snap.

Tick-tock.

He longed for the oblivion of sleep. Hours where the boat sailed on and he was floating in the dark, thoughtless, senseless, nothing.

Tick-tock.

It knocked against his mind more firmly this time, and he felt it, the shift between sleep and consciousness. It was subtle, but it was there. He threw the sheet off of his torso, seeking a cooling breeze to relieve his clammy body. But there was no fresh air to be had, the porthole windows firmly closed against the waves. Twisting about, his legs became entangled in the sheet, forcing him to kick and wiggle to free his feet, bringing himself fully awake in the process. He lay still for a moment, taking deep breaths, willing his eyelids to grow heavy, his mind dim.

Tick-tock.

No use. He tore the remaining entangled sheets from his legs and sat up on the bed. Lighting a candle, he checked the insistent clock beside the bed. 11p.m., he had not even managed an hour of rest since he had come to bed. Edward sighed. It was a silly time of night, one made only for rest. But his body and mind were not going to comply. He needed distraction.

He considered his options. He could light his desk lamp and work on his travel journal, or perhaps read. Both were heavy with effort. A hacking cough sounded from the next room. Even through the walls he could hear the solid wetness of the sound; death made manifest and soggy. He listened as Mary rose and shuffled over to his wife, the soft murmur of her soothing croon drifting to his ears. He longed to go in and care for his wife himself, but he knew Rosalind would only turn him away. Their pretence that all was well had been wearing thin this last few weeks.

He had to get out, to move. Hastily he dressed. Perhaps the saloon would still be open and he could enjoy a whiskey to dull his restless mind. Grabbing up his journal and pencil, he quietly exited the room.

The lights were still on in the saloon casting the ornate brass finishings of the room in a comfortingly warm glow. Strolling in he found the bar unattended. He waited a moment, hoping that the waiter had simply popped out briefly. In truth Edward had no idea of the schedule of the boat at large. When they first set out he had taken lunch in the restaurant with the other first class guests, but the constant enquiries after his wife had taken on the tone of gossip, driving him back to his rooms. The excuse of seasickness could only work for so long.

After waiting a moment more Edward sighed, he was clearly too late to be served. Surprised at the disappointment he felt at missing out on a drink, he turned to leave.

‘Ah, excuse me, Mr. Barrington?’ a gentle voice came from the side of the lounge. Edward glanced over. A man, younger than himself by a few years, sat in a plush armchair, book in hand. Edward swept his eyes over the youth, almond coloured hair and eyes glittered in the soft light as he crossed the space between them. He looked familiar, though Edward could not recall his name.

‘George Harbot,’ the young man supplied, smiling warmly, ‘we were at the same table the night before the Canal.’ He held his hand out in greeting. Edward took it, the warmth of the contact surprising him.

‘Of course,’ he replied.

George stood before him, awkwardly silent. The moment stretched and Edward, damning himself for leaving his rooms on this foolish quest, was about to wish him goodnight when, ‘You only just missed the waiter. 11pm is close. But, I’ve most of a bottle of wine left. You would be welcome to join me.’

‘That’s very kind…’ Edward began.

‘The company would be most welcome,’ George smiled again. An urgency came over his face as he did, giving his round, open features a sense of desperation. Despite himself, Edward found himself nodding his acceptance of George’s offer and made his way over to the table.

George poured them both a wine. ‘Don’t worry, I wiped the glass,’ he said, handing Edward a generously filled glass of deep red liquid. ‘To your health.’

Edward nodded, repeating, ‘Your health,’ and took a deep drink. The wine was both sweet and bold, its warming tannins sliding down his throat and spreading tendrils through his chest. He felt his body start to relax.

‘A nice vintage,’ Edward ventured.

George gave him a wry smile, ‘There I will have to take your word for it. I’m not really one for the taste so much as the effects. Takes the edge off after a long day on the water.’

Edward eyed him, looking for any clue that the young man was fishing for gossip, or information. George returned his gaze with one of simple friendship.

‘I’ve not seen you down here this late before. To be honest, it’s normally just me at this hour. I’ve not been sleeping very well on this trip. Everything feels too close and too spacious, all at once. That probably sounds rather silly…’

Surprised at hearing his own feelings of unease voiced back to him, Edward almost agreed, but stopped himself.

‘What brings you on this journey?’ he asked to cover his pause.

‘Recklessness, if you asked my father,’ George gave a short, indulgent laugh. ‘Avoiding responsibility would be my mother’s take. She can’t wait for grandchildren.’ He winked at Edward as if the two were in on the same joke. Edward longed for children, but with Rosalind’s health…

‘But really, adventure.’ George continued. ‘I’m a doctor, newly trained. While I was studying I read so much about the impact of our diseases, colds, the flu, on the Aborigines in Australia, when we first settled. And then about the challenges the settlers have faced getting care in the more remote parts of the country. I wanted to go see it all for myself. See what help I can give,’ George paused, taking a sip of his wine. ‘What about you?’

Determined to enjoy this moment of companionship, Edward pushed aside the fleeting sense of panic at hearing George was a doctor. ‘Much like you,’ he lied. ‘Before I was married I loved to travel: Italy, France, Greece. I left all that behind, for my wife.’ He paused, realising for the first time just how true that was. ‘But an opportunity came up to work in South Australia and I couldn’t pass it up.’

‘To work? A commission?’

‘Yes, I am a poet of some note,’ he swallowed uncomfortably, he hated talking about his success. ‘Fortunately for me, there is a man in South Australia, Mr Alistair Harbinger, who wishes me to describe his part of the continent. And so another adventure, but this time, not alone.’

‘I envy you that,’ George said, eyes softening, ‘I have always travelled alone. It’s never bothered me so much before, but this trip…’ A quiet loneliness in the man’s voice spoke to the same need inside of Edward. He felt comfortable with this man.

‘Thank you,’ Edward blurted, surprising himself as he spoke, ‘for the wine and company. While I am not travelling alone, it is nice to have someone else to talk to, for an evening.’

’Thank you for joining me. It is good to talk with someone who listens, and understands, as a fellow traveller. I have been to Italy and France, but not Greece. Will you tell me of your time there?’

Edward sucked in a swift breath, shoulders tensing. Missing nothing, George’s eyes went wide, ‘I do apologise. I did not mean to pry.’

Edward stretched his neck, aiming to shake the nerves that had hit him so suddenly.

‘Not at all, I mentioned the trip. And it was quite extraordinary. But it coincided with a very difficult time in my life. Some of my memories of Greece are not so pleasant.’

‘I am sorry to hear that. It must have been difficult, being so far from home?’

George’s eyes were gentle, enquiring without demanding. Edward suppressed a rueful grin at how successful his bedside manner would be as a doctor. With that quiet, calm invitation to speak, his patients would be confessing their sins. Without consciously intending to, Edward found himself accepting a re-fill of wine and opening up.

‘My father passed away while I was in Athens,’ he began, ‘it was a long journey home, so I was absent for his funeral.’

‘That must have been terribly hard. I would be devastated should I suffer a similar fate.’

‘To be honest, we were never close. My father worked in business, travelling all over the Continent to meet with contacts. My mother died when I was born and father, well, I don’t think he really knew what to do with me.’

George took in this intensely private information in silence. His face revealed no judgement, no pity, only openness.

So Edward continued.

Next Chapter: Chapter nine: The Child Poet