walked on the sunny side of the deck, she saw Mrs Grievous beckoning, but she pretended not to see and went round to the port side where there was no sun and it was beastly cold. Mrs Grievous felt the cold, she always said, and only sat out in the sun for the sake of her health, so she was unlikely to follow Isis here. Someone had left a blanket on a seat and Isis snuggled into it and looked at the book. Salamander Summer, it was called, and there was a man with a black moustache and a lady with her dress coming off her pearly shoulder.
Isis read a page or two, but she wasn’t it the mood for reading. She put down the book, rolled herself up like a sausage in the blanket and lay flat on her back on the bench, looking up at parts of the ship that she couldn’t name and at the sky, pale blue like the sherry glasses at home, shading to lampshade white. She stared and stared at the blue, keeping her eyes wide open, not even allowing a blink, till they started to water and to close of their own accord. This she found a good method of getting to sleep – and after all, there was nothing else to do.
She let her eyes close and drifted back to the kitchen to teach Mary how to play cribbage – she could ask for a cribbage board for Christmas. Or perhaps Victor – or Arthur – would buy her one in Cairo. If they have even games like that in Egypt. She’d enjoy explaining how you do the counting, the lovely orderly rows of holes that you jump the matchsticks over when you count, so you always know just where you are, and where your opponent is too.
If only Mary would still be there when they got back and not run off with Mr Patey.
She saw a darkening through her eyelids and opened them to see Mr Grievous looming above her, and she sat up quick, smart, almost banging her head against his, which had been far too close.
‘You all right?’ He eased down beside her and took out his pipe.
‘Yes, thank you.’
He rapped his pipe on the edge of the bench till the sticky dottle came out.
She struggled out of the blanket and put her feet on the deck. He had shoes with a pattern of holes like in the cribbage board, only swirly, and all the holes were full of flour, or maybe Mrs Grievous’ talcum powder.
‘Rather nippy this side,’ he said. ‘Why not go and sit in the sun?’
‘I just felt like . . .’ It took her a moment to find the right word. ‘Solitude.’
Mr Grievous hooted, then straightened his face. His moustache was so black it must be dyed, and his teeth were beastly yellow.
‘Solitude,’ he repeated. ‘I like that. What’s your age?’
‘Nearly fifteen,’ she lied.
‘Don’t look it,’ he said, eyeing her.
She wrapped her arms around herself and looked away.
‘You know we’re saying toodle-oo at Marseilles?’ he said. ‘Tomorrow morning, that is.’
‘Well, it’s been a pleasure to meet you,’ she said stiffly.
‘Maisie has formed quite a soft spot for you,’ he said, adding, ‘poor old fool.’
‘She’s good at cribbage,’ she said.
He snorted.
‘Well, I must be going.’ She stood to leave, but he grabbed her hand. His was hard and warm and squeezed her chilly bones until they nearly hurt.
‘Did she tell you why we’re going to Marseilles?’
‘It’s where your boy lives.’ She stood as far away from him as possible, her arm stretched till it felt as if it would pull right out of her shoulder.
‘She’s going to say goodbye. She’s dying, you know.’
‘She’s not!’ Isis said. ‘She’s perfectly all right.’
‘A few weeks, at most. We won’t be going back to Blighty. Not together, at any rate.’
Isis stared at him, his moist eyes and moustache and the bundles of hair crammed in his nostrils that surely must made it hard to breathe.
‘Won’t you go and sit with her?’ he said. ‘She’s taken such a shine.’ He let her hand go and she staggered backwards.
‘Of course,’ she said, recovering her balance.
The sea was growing rougher as she
Isis read a page or two, but she wasn’t it the mood for reading. She put down the book, rolled herself up like a sausage in the blanket and lay flat on her back on the bench, looking up at parts of the ship that she couldn’t name and at the sky, pale blue like the sherry glasses at home, shading to lampshade white. She stared and stared at the blue, keeping her eyes wide open, not even allowing a blink, till they started to water and to close of their own accord. This she found a good method of getting to sleep – and after all, there was nothing else to do.
She let her eyes close and drifted back to the kitchen to teach Mary how to play cribbage – she could ask for a cribbage board for Christmas. Or perhaps Victor – or Arthur – would buy her one in Cairo. If they have even games like that in Egypt. She’d enjoy explaining how you do the counting, the lovely orderly rows of holes that you jump the matchsticks over when you count, so you always know just where you are, and where your opponent is too.
If only Mary would still be there when they got back and not run off with Mr Patey.
She saw a darkening through her eyelids and opened them to see Mr Grievous looming above her, and she sat up quick, smart, almost banging her head against his, which had been far too close.
‘You all right?’ He eased down beside her and took out his pipe.
‘Yes, thank you.’
He rapped his pipe on the edge of the bench till the sticky dottle came out.
She struggled out of the blanket and put her feet on the deck. He had shoes with a pattern of holes like in the cribbage board, only swirly, and all the holes were full of flour, or maybe Mrs Grievous’ talcum powder.
‘Rather nippy this side,’ he said. ‘Why not go and sit in the sun?’
‘I just felt like . . .’ It took her a moment to find the right word. ‘Solitude.’
Mr Grievous hooted, then straightened his face. His moustache was so black it must be dyed, and his teeth were beastly yellow.
‘Solitude,’ he repeated. ‘I like that. What’s your age?’
‘Nearly fifteen,’ she lied.
‘Don’t look it,’ he said, eyeing her.
She wrapped her arms around herself and looked away.
‘You know we’re saying toodle-oo at Marseilles?’ he said. ‘Tomorrow morning, that is.’
‘Well, it’s been a pleasure to meet you,’ she said stiffly.
‘Maisie has formed quite a soft spot for you,’ he said, adding, ‘poor old fool.’
‘She’s good at cribbage,’ she said.
He snorted.
‘Well, I must be going.’ She stood to leave, but he grabbed her hand. His was hard and warm and squeezed her chilly bones until they nearly hurt.
‘Did she tell you why we’re going to Marseilles?’
‘It’s where your boy lives.’ She stood as far away from him as possible, her arm stretched till it felt as if it would pull right out of her shoulder.
‘She’s going to say goodbye. She’s dying, you know.’
‘She’s not!’ Isis said. ‘She’s perfectly all right.’
‘A few weeks, at most. We won’t be going back to Blighty. Not together, at any rate.’
Isis stared at him, his moist eyes and moustache and the bundles of hair crammed in his nostrils that surely must made it hard to breathe.
‘Won’t you go and sit with her?’ he said. ‘She’s taken such a shine.’ He let her hand go and she staggered backwards.
‘Of course,’ she said, recovering her balance.
The sea was growing rougher as she
Similar Books
