At the very back of the cupboards, which shared one space between the two doors, was something like a small biscuit tin. She had to duck under the rudder arm in order to reach it, and she almost dropped it when she finally got her fingers to it, it was so surprisingly heavy.
She checked the four quarters of the sea for sight of Crows. He wasn’t there, so she sat down with the tin in her lap and wrestled it open.
It was a clock. No, not a clock, because it only had one long hand and there were no hours marked out. Well, it could be a clock, a Down clock that worked by its own rules. She lifted it up to listen to it and check for ticking, and as she did so, the hand pivoted about its middle, and the whole glass face rocked.
She put it back down and poked the dial, which not only moved under her touch, but turned every which way. The hand swung back and forth across the markings on the dial.
This was treasure. Not just the boat and the sails, but the needle and thread and this… thing. And it had all been grown out of Down’s land. She looked at it through half-closed eyes and it reminded her of Bell’s brass instruments. Had Down given them to Bell, just as it had given her this?
A compass. There was only one direction marked, west, but if she gave it some thought, north and south should be easy enough to work out.
If she only knew how, she could now sail the oceans of Down, and navigate at the same time. Her breath came in quick, shallow pants. In the right hands◦– not hers, obviously◦– this was almost as good as a map, and she had it. She couldn’t remember Crows showing any interest in the contents of the lockers. For him, the boat was simply a means of transporting the maps across the bay without getting them wet.
First things first. She checked again for Crows, and saw him in the middle distance, loops of his body rising and falling in the water. She had time, then.
The compass: lid on, and moved to ‘her’ end of the boat. Then she heaved up a corner of sailcloth and tucked it securely underneath. She went back for some of the spare cloth, the needles, the shears and one of the knives, and stowed it as far from the door as she could reach. It seemed dry enough in there, despite the sea being just the other side of the planks.
Then she dragged it all back out. That wouldn’t work◦– she didn’t need to hide the sail-making equipment, but to have a reason to have it out, on show.
She’d been cold last night. She’d make herself a cape: a big, all-encompassing cloak that she could turn, with a few tugs and folds, into a giant carrying bag. What could Crows do about that? He would gaze at her, and she at him, and she’d go back to her stitching.
There was only one problem with her plan. She didn’t know how to sew. For sure, they’d tried to teach her but, as with so many other skills she’d been shown by well-meaning teachers, she’d abandoned the lesson because she didn’t want to learn something so mundane. She could get her clothes from market stalls, or nick them from department stores, so why learn to hem and stitch and shape?
If they’d presented the task with a warning that her life depended on being able to make a buttonhole, she might have approached it◦– and her whole life◦– differently. As it was, she’d have to guess as she went along.
She took one of the squares◦– a piece big enough to cover a restaurant table◦– and cut it in two, then into four, so she had something to practise on. The needles were too fat to slip between the weft of the cloth, even when she wedged one against the side of the boat and tried to ram the cloth over it. She went back to the stern lockers and searched. She found one of the needles wasn’t a needle, but a metal spike which would punch a hole clean through with a grunt of effort. The hole was big enough to squeeze one of the needles through, and the hooked end could work the cord-like thread after it.
She realised that whatever she was going to make, be it simple or complicated, it was going to take a fuck-load of time and energy. She almost gave up before she started, looking for an easier solution. Or she could just not do it, because she always avoided doing anything difficult.
Mary scowled at the cloth, the needle, the cord, and picked up the hole-maker. It was sharp enough in its own right to qualify as a weapon. Useful. Crows had better not come too close.
It was only when the boat tilted rather than rocked that she looked up from her work. Two brown hands were clinging to the side rail, the nails pinked with effort. An elbow hoisted itself up, and Crows’ head appeared, then his foot hooked over. He tumbled, soaked, into the bottom of the boat, and lay there for a moment, before turning over to look at her and what she was doing.
‘You took your own sweet time,’ she snapped. She glanced up, then concentrated on getting the tension in her thread right. Too loose was no good, but too tight made the cloth bunch.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m doing something that’s not quite as boring as staring out to sea, while waiting for you.’
‘All that was here? The cloth, the needles?’
‘Came with the boat.’ She held up the piece she was working on, and gave the two halves an experimental tug. The seam stretched. It looked pretty amateur◦– she wasn’t even sure she’d used a recognised stitch, and from Crows’ expression, she hadn’t◦– but at least it held.
‘Is that so?’ He raised himself up, and concentrated on driving the moisture from his clothes. Mist rose around him, as if he was steaming. A neat trick, and another she’d have to learn. He was joined at the rudder by a pair of crows, who rattled their beaks and clattered their wings before rising into the sky. ‘We may have drifted,’ he said. ‘I must see where we are, before setting a new course.’
‘It’s almost like you know where you’re going.’ She didn’t look up this time. ‘Do you?’
‘Whether I do or not remains to be seen,’ he replied, not admitting one way or another.
She snorted. ‘What is it with blokes and directions? Always too fucking proud to admit you’re lost.’
‘We are in Down,’ said Crows. ‘For some, that is lost, and for some, that is found.’
She searched the horizon for any sight of land, but saw none. It was water as far as she could see. She had never been this alone before in her life: her experience had always been the noise and chaos of a children’s home, when there was always someone around. It was wealth and privilege that bought privacy, locked doors and high walls.
She started to laugh, and Crows looked at her as if she was deranged, which only made her laugh harder, until she was all but incapable of speech. She was rich, not in any way she could understand, but she was here to stay. Down was everything she’d ever wanted. It wasn’t heaven, it was more like hell, but it made her feel alive.
‘It is good to laugh,’ said Crows, still not sure what to make of it, or her. ‘After the… unfortunate incident on the beach, I thought your heart would always be sad.’
Mary panted for a while, and managed to sit upright again. ‘Oh, you’ll pay for that, one way or another, one day. And just so you know, when that moment comes, you’re on your own.’
‘Your friends have to catch me first.’ A wave rose slowly from the deep and rolled towards the stern, at the same time a trough formed ahead of the bow. The boat pitched forward, and the sensation of movement, if not the visible signs of it, began.
‘Don’t write them off too fast.’ She rearranged the sewing in her lap. ‘They’re full of surprises.’
Crows considered it. ‘One old women, one scared girl, and your Dalip Singh, who is brave but naïve and simply too trusting to survive here. You should not pin your hopes on seeing them again.’