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  Presently the Satellite gave such a tremendous jolt that Mr. Frank lost his footing at the back of his machine. He was instantly tossed ten feet into the air, coming down upon the still-oscillating Vibratory Beam. This he managed to wrap his arms and legs around, hugging the beam like a bear, fighting for all his life to hang on. At that moment a rope of the Connective Apparatus caught in one of the pulleys between the Satellite and the Central Drum. It was instantly severed, whipping past the drum and, due to the excessive coiling, wrapping itself around Mr. Stollmeyer’s leg. The rope began dragging him on his buttocks across the damp grass, in the direction of the Prime Mover. At which point several of the labourers—including a rather heavyset triangle player from Ensemble—seeing Mr. Stollmeyer in danger, flung themselves bodily atop him as he slid past, hoping to bring him to a halt. As a result not only Mr. Stollmeyer but three or four other men were dragged the length of Satellite Field—whilst Mr. Frank clutched for dear life to the wildly oscillating Vibratory Beam—before Mr. Tucker could successfully blow off steam, shutting down the runaway locomotive.

  After this second breakdown there was another substantial delay whilst the severed rope was rewound around the Central Drum, then spliced together. The locomotive was re-stoked and Mr. Stollmeyer, Mr. Frank, and Mr. Tucker resumed their positions. Since Mr. Stollmeyer’s cone had been crushed beyond all possible recognition or use, at the ready signal from Mr. Frank he cupped his palms around his bearded mouth and called out to Mr. Tucker. The response of the crowd and the Ensemble, this third time, was somewhat delayed. Yet even before the Vibratory Beam above Mr. Frank’s head could make a half-dozen oscillations, his machine was trailed by a crowd of excited, cheering spectators. All of these men, however, had learnt a valuable lesson from Mr. Stollmeyer’s buttocks-slide earlier in the day. And despite their inebriated state, they were careful to stay clear of the ropes. Mr. Tucker gently applied more power; the Central Drum rotated smoothly back-and-forth, clockwise-and-counterclockwise; and the oscillations of the Vibratory Beam caused the Satellite’s fiercely armed front shaft to turn and rip up the ground.

  All were ecstatic. For almost a minute the Satellite achieved its maximum velocity of three mph, successfully tearing up approximately nine yards of dirt. Yet within seconds, perilously, even the most inebriated of the spectators had left the lumbering Satellite behind. They’d gathered before the machine, directly in the path of its fiercely churning front shaft. Mr. Frank, holding tight to the reins, pounced with all his weight upon the right side of the rudder. The machine veered sharply to the left and toppled—this time tossing Mr. Frank a good fifteen feet behind his machine, and clear of all danger—one of the ropes kinked and snapped, and a thoroughly demoralized Mr. Stollmeyer called out to Mr. Tucker to blow off steam.

  Thus the trial of the Satellite was concluded. And despite the dubious success of Mr. Etzler’s machine, there could be little doubt that the spectators had been treated to some rather splendid acrobatic antics by Mr. Stollmeyer and Mr. Frank, in addition to a rural fest.

  3

  27 Flickering Churchcandles

  Marguerite left her cabin that morning walking barefoot, still wearing her thin nightdress. She took my arm as we made we way down the corridor, up the carpeted steps, out onto the forecastle deck.

  Neither of us noticed the little man dangling from the rigging high above our heads. Not before he called down to us—

  To slake his surst zey gave him vinegar unt gall!

  We paused to look up at him, hanging there with the sun shining so bright behind his back, we had to squint to make him out. The noose tied by Captain Damphier round his waist had, overnight, worked its way up to his armpits. Now he hung there with his arms spread wide as if to embrace us—like if he was nailed to an invisible cross in truth—swaying side-to-side with the slow roll of the ship. He’d lost one of his shoes. His long beard a gnarled mess that looked like a picoplat’s nest tucked beneath his chin. Mr. Etzler seemed to have soiled he trousers.

  Marguerite looked at me quizzical—she’d not been there the previous afternoon to witness the fiasco. She reached into the pocket of my frock coat where she’d tucked her little book and pencil, taking them out, scribbling—

  performing an experiment with solar heat?

  I glanced up, then back to Marguerite—

  And baked his brains-pot in the process.

  We turned and continued cross the deck, Mr. Etzler calling out behind us—

  Zey know not what zey do!

  Now we proceeded down another short flight of carpeted steps, Marguerite’s hand clasping my forearm. As we passed the window of the dining hall reserved for upper class, I glanced sideways to take in Mr. and Mrs. Whitechurch, just finishing the third course of they breakfast, the fruits-and-nuts tray. I escorted Marguerite past the galley, down the series of narrow, dim, rough plank stairs. Three flights below. At the bottom I turned the crude latch and swung the door open, directing Marguerite into the dingy hallway. Lined on both sides by other plank doors, each with its shining padlock. I shut the door behind us again, enclosing us in total darkness. Feeling Marguerite’s hand tighten round my forearm, her breathing quicken beside me—

  Only a few steps, I whisper.

  I led her to the last plank door on the starboard side. Four doors down, twenty-three steps. I reached deep inside my pocket for my ring of keys. Selecting the proper one, I opened the padlock, swinging the door in, slipping my arm round Marguerite’s waist. Directing her blindly into the storeroom. Now I detected the pungent, though not entirely disagreeable odours of mould and salt-laden moisture. Like I was smelling them for the first time. The air heavy, wet against my cheeks—slippery, cool. A soft tinkle of bilgewater someplace beneath the boards, distinct and musical as chimes. I let Marguerite’s waist go and closed the door behind us, poking my fingers through the handle-hole till the padlock clicked shut.

  I continued shifting round in the dark, locating my pitch-oil lamp, feeling for the box of matches and striking one against my thumbnail.

  I raised the lantern up above my head. Marguerite’s hazel eyes glistening as she studied the storeroom: the wooden crates of all shapes and sizes, piled in short and tall towers, contents stamped in black letters cross they tops and sides; stacks of pasteboard boxes and piles of jute sacks; pallets of horizontal-lying bottles—clear-coloured & green & blue & brown; shelves lined with tinned goods and dusty jars, parcels wrapped in coarse brownpaper.

  At one side the hams hung from the ceiling, swaying back-and-forth in counterdirection to the ship’s roll. Marguerite gazing over at they perfectly orchestrated movement.

  All-in-a-sudden her expression changed. She reached inside my pocket for her book and pencil, scribbling something. Whilst I strained my eyes to make her letters out—

  you’re quite sure there’re no shiprats?

  I smiled—

  Pssst! I say, looking round.

  Calling out again—

  Pssssst!

  A few seconds later the large gray-and-black-striped tabby appeared—jade eyes with the markings of a white ascot under his chin, four seemingly oversized white boots. Striding out from behind a wall of crates. The tabby approached us, rubbing his shoulder against my trouser leg, plume of his tail brushing side-to-side.

  I put the lamp down and reached to the top of the crate beside me, breaking off a piece of Swiss cheese and offering it to the puss-cat. Taking him up—

  Mr. Talbot, I say. After a gentleman Father introduced me to on a trip to Wiltshire. He showed us his photogenic process.

  I paused—

  I’ve no idea what the sailors call him.

  Marguerite put her book and pencil down and reached for Mr. Talbot.

  He’s quite special, I say. A six-toed Chinese cat—polydactyl—the sailors consider ’em good luck. Every vessel has one aboard.

  I watched her scratch under the tabby’s chin, his oversized white mitten pressed against her shoulder.

  Now I turn
ed round, studying the storeroom. And throwing my weight behind a stack of three crates labeled PORTUGAL PORT WINE, I shoved them over behind the door, blocking it shut from the inside. I removed my top hat and placed it up on the shelf amongst the Stilton cheeses. Then I took off my coat, crossed to the other side, and hung it from a nail alongside the swaying hams. My embroidered vest. I pulled off my silk cravat and folded it into my coat pocket, rolling the French cuffs up over my elbows.

  I began shoving aside several other stacks of crates, clearing a space at the centre of the storeroom. Tossing aside a mound of fragrant jute sacks labeled INDIA DARJEELING.

  By the time I’d finished I’d worked up a sweat. Mr. Talbot had gone off behind the crates, Marguerite standing behind me holding up the lantern. I turned towards her.

  Her eyes shone, hazel hair soft and delicate over her shoulders. I took a deep breath, reached for the lantern, and hung it from a nail in one of the beams. I turned to her again. Taking hold of her hand, I closed my eyes. And for the first time since we’d met on the train to Bicester, first time since we’d hidden weself in our secret place beneath the stands, four months previous, I leant forward to find her lips.

  ___________________

  So as not to worry she aunt and uncle, Marguerite returned to her cabin to sleep the night. Likewise I returned to my own cabin. Having—for the first time since we’d come aboard—perilously skipped the previous night. Son, I didn’t have no idea how my family might’ve reacted to my disappearance—maybe I’d scared them half to death, thinking I’d fallen overboard.

  Much to my surprise I learnt my absence hadn’t troubled them a-tall. It took me a good few minutes to suss out the reason why. Now I discovered my father had gotten the notion into his head I’d been hired out by Captain Damphier. Temporarily. As a ship’s hand. Papee assured Mum and my sisters that I now slept in a hammock in the sailors’ quarters. No doubt about it a-tall, he’d told them. Because he’d seen me heself early one morning—up on the forbidden forecastle deck, barefoot and still wearing my nightdress—hurrying to my new new duties of swabbing down the boards. On another occasion he’d stumbled cross me—all dandied-up in frock coat and top hat—scrambling towards my charge of serving dinner in the upper-class dining hall.

  Son, I was just as taken aback by all this deckhand-bubball as you are. But I assure you I didn’t say nothing to change my mum and sisters’ minds about it. Nor Papee’s neither.

  Whilst the rest of them slept that night I lay on my bunk with my arms doubled up behind my head—legs folded tight like a crab—my eyes closed. Remembering. Drifting again in my familiar memoryspace.

  That afternoon, hidden in we secret place beneath the stands—whilst the trial of Mr. Etzler’s machine was concluded outside—I lay flat on my back, my head cradled in Marguerite’s lap. How I’d found myself in that position I couldn’t tell you. Only that I wanted to lie there forever. Now I felt her hand caress my cheek, a moment’s tenderness that will remain with me the rest of my days.

  At some point during the waning afternoon I’d tipped Mr. Powell’s bottle back for another swig, finding it empty. I’d looked at the bottle holding in my hand like I wasn’t even sure where it had come from. Then I recorked it and tossed it aside, watching it take a slow tumble in the yellowed grass. Deeply regretting I’d ever set eyes on that bottle of whiskey. Because all-in-a-sudden I wasn’t feeling too good a-tall. The grass beneath me swimming like the bench on the train, only far worse. That was when I’d tumbled onto my back, seeking the solace of Marguerite’s lap. The lingering memory of her soft hand caressing my cheek.

  Then I tumbled headlong into a black hole, bottomless and dreamless both.

  ___________________

  I awoke on the cold hard ground. Alone. Unsure at first where I was or how I’d gotten there. My head pounding like a tassa-drum. I lay there another minute trying to recover myself. Attempting to act like a man, I’d behaved like a forceripe schoolboy. Now I climbed up onto my feet, reaching down to take up my cap and the picnic basket. And I stumbled out onto a thoroughly trampled Satellite Field, littered with empty bottles and rubbish. The sun already disappearing beyond the distant line of sycamores, sky behind them fiery pink. Only Papee, Mr. Powell, and Mr. Frank remained on the field. They crouched round a lantern in the semi-dark, a short distance from the toppled machine, its thirty-foot scar curving out in the dirt behind it. The three men still discussing the results of the trial.

  I took a seat on the ground beside Papee. And I sat there on the trodden grass a long time, hugging Marguerite’s lilac scarf against my chest. The men talked quiet, occasionally interrupting they discussion for one of them to roll out a large dog-eared diagram, take up the lantern, and point out something to the other two. Papee recognised the picnic basket beside me. He passed it round, taking out a sandwich for heself as well.

  But son, I couldn’t have put nothing inside my churning stomach. I wasn’t listening. Didn’t have no idea whether this trial had been a success or not. I didn’t care. The men didn’t seem upset, though the jubilation they’d exhibited earlier in the day had clearly subsided. Eventually they rose to they feet, collected they jackets & papers & paraphernalia, and I took up the empty picnic basket. We set off to catch the final train.

  ___________________

  By the time Papee and me exited the station and started our short walk home the streetlamps had been extinguished. Mum and my sisters had returned to Suffolk Dyers at noon. They’d worked a five-hour shift and were now dead asleep in they beds. As we walked I held Marguerite’s scarf loose in my hand, but I wouldn’t have let it go not for nothing in the world. In my other hand I carried the empty picnic basket.

  We didn’t talk. After a few blocks we came to a little square in the shape of a triangle, ancient oak implanted in the middle, lone sentinel of our meagre borough. Its dusty leaves were stirring gentle in the breeze, and with the dim light of an unseen moon they cast mottled shadows cross the ground. Cross my father’s back as he unbuttoned his fly, bent forward at the waist to remove heself, and began splashing warm weewee against the trunk. A faint smoke rose up caressing the bark. I set the basket down and stuffed the scarf inside my pocket, stepping up beside him, taking myself out too.

  After we’d finished we stood in silence another minute, before Papee spoke—

  ’Twill never work, he says. I’ve known from the start. And after today I know it better than ever.

  Something in Papee’s voice told me he hadn’t finished—

  Doesn’t matter, he says. Not in the least. The only important thing is that we have something to believe in. Anathing. Only important thing is it’s fervent enough to get us someplace else.

  Papee stood staring up into the shadowy leaves, pensive, toetee still in hand—

  I haven’t forgotten, he says. Happy birthday, son.

  He turned his eyes down to the trunk for a second, then over towards me. And what my father said then is something else that will remain with me the rest of my life. A tender sweetness, bitter sting—

  Imagine, son, he says. A year from now, all the Tuckers together, we’ll celebrate your birthday in Trinidad.

  I felt a pang of guilt—lying in my bunk imaging all those delicacies that awaited us in our storageroom, whilst my family consumed they horrid breakfasts in the third-class dining hall. And I determined to smuggle some of those goods out to them at the first opportunity. I stepped down and took out the bundle I’d stashed the previous evening in the space beneath Georgina’s bunk. Dressing myself back in my fancified clothes, returning straightway to Marguerite.

  But before we left the Whitechurches’ cabin to make we way towards the bridge, in a moment of inspiration, Marguerite penciled out a note for she aunt and uncle. Leaving it there on Mrs. Whitechurch’s dressing table—

  Auntie—despite my protests Dr. Worthington has insisted upon moving

  me to another cabin he says with superiour circulation of fresh ocean air—very

 
; healing!—& he can observe the progress of my convalescence more closely

  I stepped behind a wall of crates, returning with a parcel wrapped in coarse brownpaper. Tied tight with twine. I set it down on the stack of boxes beside Mr. Talbot’s piece of Swiss cheese. And using Papee’s penknife to snap the twine, I peeled back the brownpaper. Shaking out the first white sheet.

  I smiled at Marguerite—

  Ours’ll be the softest mattress you’ve ever known!

  She stooped to take a corner in each hand, me holding the opposite side. And together we ballooned the sheet high as the storeroom’s low plank ceiling. With a faint exhalation of moist, patchouli-scented air, we let the sheet float back down to the floor, spreading it out simultaneous cross the boards. After that we ballooned a next sheet between us. Another soft white sheet woven from the finest Chinee silk, patchouli-oiled to protect against the assault of moths. Spreading it out careful on top.

  Another sheet; and another; and still another.

  Till we’d unfolded and emptied three similar brownpaper packages, each containing a half-dozen sheets. Till we’d mounted up a mattress a foot thick.

  I disappeared behind the wall of boxes again, returning with a small crate making a glassy noise as I walked. Labeled simply—

  Packed with votive churchcandles, each in its canister of bright crimson glass. We lit them one-by-one. Setting them down in they bright shields along the edges of shelves, atop the short and tall stacks of crates—a flickering rectangle round the floorboards framing our mattress-self. Till we’d emptied the entire crate: twenty-seven flickering churchcandles. Our storeroom suffused with a soft crimson glow. All round our woodsy-scented sheets, smelling like a country stream in early morning.

  I stepped from out my boots and removed my stockings, balling them up and stuffing them inside. Placing my boots on the shelf beside my hat.