Southern Ocean, 22nd March 1873
For more than a Month we have plunged eastward under steady Winds. We have not seen any sign of Land. The Captain says we sometimes gain 200 mile a day, but it is hard to see proof of such Progress. We still spend as much time on deck as we can, wrapped against a Cold so fierce that our eyes stream. Our bedding and clothes are constantly damp, despite the charcoal stoves brought down regularly to dry the Room. I am wearing both my flannel petticoats and my one warm gown, and have taken to wearing the thick stockings I had knitted for Father.
I cannot write on deck for the Numbness in my fingers. Even below in our quarters I am not much tempted. The paper is damp and the nib catches, sending the ink spluttering. When I do take up my Pen, I find little of interest to record, and much of that distressing.
Seabirds have been wheeling and crying in our wake ever since we rounded the Cape of Good Hope and began our Easting. The birds are mostly Cape Pigeons, pretty in their black and white patterns. When they are not flying, they ride the waves, all packed close together, like living rafts. Sometimes we see Albatrosses, sailing the wind like ships, their huge Wings outspread. At first I welcomed the birds, for they reminded me of home. But they soon proved easy targets for the men, who spend idle hours catching them on hooked lines baited with rotting meat. The Cape Pigeons make good eating, but I have become sickened by the ongoing senseless Killing, birds caught just for the sport and tossed back into the sea.
Even worse are the Albatrosses they catch. It pains me to see them hooked and dragged aboard to be reduced to pipe stems and purses. They are no use for the pot.
Many of the seamen dislike this catching of the giant birds, and mutter of ill omen and Disaster at sea. Some of the Stories they tell are close to those told by the old people at Home, and unease grows in me. The Sea and its Creatures should not be treated so lightly.
I fear this Journey will never come to its End.
* * *
A month into our Easting, we were locked down below for several days, how many I cannot say, for it were scarce possible to tell night from day. The hatch covers were fastened over us while a terrible storm battered the ship. The noise was tremendous, great blows shuddered through the hull as though we were crashing amongst rocks. Torrents of seawater poured down the stairway into our berths. We have grown used to mountain-high waves soaking us in stormy weather. No matter how well the seamen close everything up, the sea still comes in. Nothing had been so bad as this. Water slopped knee-deep and our possessions rolled backwards and forwards, all awash. Boxes rumbled across the floor, first one way then the other, bashing against the table legs and stools until it seemed everything would be destroyed.
The Constables were unable to bring us a cooked dinner, and those few of us not ill with the motion snatched mouthfuls of dry biscuit and cold pudding. The grey light of a short day passed into yet another night without lighting, for we were forbidden lanterns in case of fire. We wedged ourselves as well we could into our berths, limbs already battered and bruised.
No-one slept, and we feared for our lives. Some time before dawn, there were a tremendous crash and the ship rolled far onto one side. She stayed there so long, I was sure our end had come. Yet another wave poured through the hatch. Stressed timbers groaned and squealed, metal clanged against the iron skin of the ship, and the roar of the wind seemed ever stronger. I could scarce draw breath, expecting that we must sink at any moment.
At last the ship slowly righted herself. Shocked voices babbled and the more timid of us broke into sobs. The Irish girls began praying out loud. Mrs Flannery called words of comfort. She did not sound any too convinced herself, and no-one paid much attention.
All night, the ship continued to roll, every structure creaking and screeching in protest. The wind howled aloft like some demented creature, and I could hear the distant shouts of the seamen on deck. I could scarce imagine what it must be like up there, exposed to the storm, as they struggled to keep the ship running before the wind.
For the rest of that long night, we kept our spirits up by singing hymns and sea shanties familiar from hearing the seamen at their work. When the Doctor and the Constables were at last able to come to us in the morning, once the worst of the storm had passed, they were full of admiration for our apparent composure.
Two days later, with the storm damage scarce cleared away, another calamity befell us. Word reached us that a child had been taken desperate ill in the night. The Doctor was with him, and we prayed for his health. It proved in vain as nothing could be done to save him. He died mid morning. Poor little lad, but five year old, only son of Henry and Elspet Shewan, one of our Shetland families. They say it were Pneumonia.
He was buried at sea before evening fell that very same day. I was allowed to be with Father and Annie at the Service. We clung together as the small canvas-wrapped body was slid into the wind-wracked sea. The great swells rolled on under the ship’s hull as though nowt had disturbed their passage. I could not bear to think of the bairn, swallowed up so easily by this vast indifferent ocean. What if it had been our Jamie? Annie trembled beside me, and I could tell she were thinking likewise. All the Shetlanders gathered round the Shewans, the grief drawing us together as a group once more. Henry and Elspet stood stone-faced and grey, their other bairns held close.
Everyone on board were present, crew and passengers, and the Captain made a most solemn occasion of it. I listened to the Holy Words read by the Doctor, and found little comfort in them.
Throughout the short service, an albatross kept vigil with us. As the words of the Committal were spoken, I watched the great bird hold its station, seemingly without effort, buoyed in the turbulent air on those immense wings. I thought of the albatrosses killed for foolish human trinkets, the warning stories told by the seamen. Our voyage and its purpose suddenly seemed ill-fated, the albatross an ill omen for what is to become of our Shetland venture.
* * *
Jaz closed the diary slowly. Her own dark thoughts were gathering like storm clouds. Matt was hardly ever home now, either working on his weights programme at the gym or eating meals at his mates’. She knew he was hurting. Why couldn’t Mum and Dad see that Matt was deliberately taking university out of the equation so they wouldn’t have to worry about finding the money for expensive fees? Suddenly the small over-warm room and its cosy clutter were claustrophobic. She put the diary away. ‘Gotta go, Gi-Gi. Can’t stay for tea today, d’you mind?’
‘Of course not, lass,’ said the old lady. ‘You go and have some fun. I’ll see you on Friday?’
‘I’ll be here,’ said Jaz, bending to kiss her. She clattered down the stairs and out the door as fast as she could. Not even Gi-Gi could help this time.
Jaz got off the bus a few stops early, needing the walk to sort out the turmoil that seethed in her head. When she reached the corner of Dalethorpe Place, she slowed to a dawdle, taking in the bland superiority of the expensive houses that lined the short curving street. Perhaps they were all just facades that hid the rot eating away underneath. The sight of someone loading a lawnmower onto his small truck made her smile momentarily. She firmly blocked out the image of Dad doing his Mike the Man routine. Her concern for her parents had been misplaced. All they cared about was status and its trappings.
At lunchtime the next day, Jaz joined Ange and the others at the bottom of the field. She took a cigarette when Marie offered her one, though she’d never liked smoking. But no more hovering on the edges, she was going to become part of this group whatever it took. So she lit up and sucked in the smoke, ignoring the burning acrid taste of the tobacco in her mouth.
Ange was watching her, that sardonic eyebrow already lifting. ‘What’s up?’ she asked casually.
Jaz knew she was on trial. The other girl didn’t miss a thing. She shrugged, keeping her voice equally casual. ‘Nothing much – boring trouble with the olds.’ She tried flicking the ash from her cigarette, not very successfully, and saw Ange’s eyebrow lift higher.
‘That all?’ Marie’s look made it plain that if anything was boring it was Jaz’s pathetic hang-up about her parents.
‘We’re cruising the mall this arvo,’ said Ange. ‘Wanna join us?’ She waited for Jaz’s response, ready to mock when she came up with some excuse.
Jaz blew smoke, trying not to cough. ‘Sure, why not?’
‘Yeah?’ said Marie, curious. ‘You? Must’ve got on your case, your olds.’
‘No more than usual,’ said Jaz. ‘They don’t control my life.’ She ignored Ange’s derisory smile and Marama’s incredulous snort. ‘What’ve you got in mind?’
‘Well now,’ said Ange, drawling her words. ‘Seeing you’re joining us, I reckon it’s makeover time. Something to go with that new hair of yours.’
‘Cool. I’m on for that.’ Jaz met her gaze steadily, trying to quell her triumphant grin. She couldn’t have wished for anything better. A change of image!
As the bell sounded and kids streamed towards the classroom blocks, Jaz drifted casually out the gate with Ange’s group. Before anyone had noticed, they were safely on a bus to the local shopping mall. Jaz relaxed. Getting caught by a teacher wouldn’t be an auspicious beginning.
Ange led them straight to a small shop frontage covered in funky posters in clashing colours. Heavy rock music pulsed from inside. Jaz stared at the shop sign. ‘Heavenly Bodies’, it said in purple writing amidst silver galaxies and golden sunbursts.
Ange was watching her reaction. ‘You’re on to it! You’ve been a metal-free zone long enough, Jaz Chapman.’
‘We’re talking serious body mod here,’ Marie waggled the steel bar-bell in her tongue at Jaz.
Jaz swallowed. Both Marie and Ange also had rings through their eyebrows. Some of the others had bar-bells in their lower lips. Nose studs were the norm. And those were just the ones she could see. She knew most of the gang had navel bars, shown off by the hipster jeans and cropped tops they wore at weekends. She felt her resolve falter.
‘Or you could go for a tattoo, eh?’ said Marama. She sported a stylish moko on her chin and other Maori patterns on her upper arms. ‘I had mine done here.’
Jaz swallowed again. ‘Yours are cool, yeah…’ Her voice trailed away. As much as she admired Marama, the one girl in the group who wasn’t ever targeted by Ange, she knew she wasn’t up for a tattoo. It was just too extreme. And the thought of having her face pierced made her skin crawl. But she’d always fancied a navel bar…
Ange was still watching her, a glint in her eye. ‘So? What’s it to be?’
‘Reckon I could go a navel bar.’ To her relief, Jaz managed to keep her voice casual. She tried a convincing touch. ‘I’ve just picked up an awesome outfit that would show it off.’
‘And a nose stud,’ said Ange, not letting her off the hook.
‘Whatever.’ A nose stud would be in her parents’ faces as soon as they looked at her. They would kill her. A mix of nerves and growing exhilaration quickened her pulse. There was just one fly in the ointment. ‘Uh-oh.’ She rushed on as Ange gazed implacably at her. ‘No dosh.’
‘Oh – that all?’ The other girl pulled a shabby wallet out from under her school shirt. ‘Thought you were chickening out there for a mo’. I can sub you. No biggie.’
Almost before Jaz could draw breath, the others were marching her into the shop. A skinny guy with a number-one haircut was standing by the counter. He looked as though the amount of metal inserted in his face had doubled his weight. A pulse throbbed so strongly in Jaz’s throat she thought it must show.
Ange leant on the counter and snapped her fingers. ‘What’ve you got in the way of navel bars for my mate here?’ She pushed Jaz forward.
‘Taihoa!’ said the young man, closing the photo album he’d been flicking through. ‘Needa know stuff first. Just kids, aren’t ya? Don’t do piercing on unner-sixteens, do I?’
Jaz felt a surge of disappointment, but Ange was more than a match for him. ‘It’s cool – she’s nearly seventeen.’
The steel balls wobbled in his eyebrows as he raised them. He looked pointedly at their junior school uniforms, then shrugged. ‘Still hasda have parent permission.’ He addressed Ange as though Jaz was invisible.
‘No way, man!’ said Ange impatiently. ‘Her parents don’t give a stuff, do they – c’mon, you can bend the rules.’
‘Well, strickly speaking …’ He hesitated, looking directly at Jaz for the first time.
Ange nudged her. ‘It’s sweet,’ Jaz said, following her lead. ‘They know I’m getting it done.’
Having been through the motions, the body piercer gave in. ‘Okay then. Whaddever. Whaddaya want, kid – ring or bar?’
Marie was already examining the trays under the glass counter. ‘Has to be a bar,’ she said. ‘One with a jewel, eh?’
‘How much?’ asked Jaz.
‘Forty bucks plain surgical steel, sixty jewel,’ he said.
‘Geez, Ange,’ whispered Jaz, deflated. ‘I can’t afford that.’
‘Who’re you kidding?’ hissed Ange. ‘Your olds are loaded.’ Nonchalantly producing a credit card from her wallet, she said out loud, ‘We’ll have the blue.’
‘Don’t forget the nose stud,’ said Marie as the young man languidly waved them through into the back of the shop. ‘That one’ll do – matching colour.’
‘Seventy-five all up.’ The man took Ange’s card.
Jaz couldn’t stop herself doing mental sums. She didn’t have that much in her bank account. Her parents kept her short as part of their policy on self-reliance. Determinedly, she pushed her hesitation aside. She could sort out how to repay Ange later.
The small room behind the shop was starkly lit by fluorescent tubes. It was almost empty apart from a shabby chair like the one at the dentist, some sort of metal cabinet with lots of drawers, and a purple settee pushed against the end wall. Blown-up photos of bodies pierced in all sorts of places with all sorts of objects were stuck up everywhere. Jaz averted her eyes from a close-up sequence of hairy male bellies. Gross.
The body piercer was putting equipment into what looked like a steriliser. ‘Any questions?’ he asked, his voice bored.
Jaz had plenty, like was there any risk, would it bleed, did it hurt … But Ange and the others were giggling on the settee. She shook her head.
‘Okay. Goes like this.’ The body piercer sat her on the chair and tilted it back. While he swabbed her stomach with some sort of disinfectant, he rattled through the procedure so fast, Jaz couldn’t understand half of what he said. She watched her stomach quiver.
‘Relax, kid, okay?’ He marked her navel, then clamped the fold of skin with forceps. ‘Three deep breaths – now.’
Almost before she had finished the breaths, he thrust the thick needle through her clamped skin and immediately followed it with the bar-bell. To her astonishment, Jaz hardly felt a thing. The body piercer wiped her stomach with disinfectant again, then put a patch over it. ‘Leave that on a few hours, okay.’ He pumped the chair upright.
Her head swam with the sudden change in position. She clutched at the sides of the chair. The body piercer looked at her, exasperated. ‘Shit – you feeling faint or summink?’
When she nodded cautiously, he sighed and asked Ange, ‘Gotta bar? Blood sugar needs boosting afore I do her nose.’
Marama rummaged in her pocket. ‘This do?’ She brought Jaz half a squashed Mars Bar, its foil crumpled and covered in fluff. ‘It’ll be okay on the inside.’
Gratefully, Jaz took it and peeled back the wrapper. ‘I owe you one.’
The young guy waited impatiently, an evil-looking cartilage gun in his gloved hand. ‘Ready?’
Jaz gulped the stale chocolate down, then nodded. Right now, all she wanted was to get out of there. Squeezing her eyes shut, she breathed deeply again when he told her to. She felt this weird graunch inside her nose, more a sound than a feeling, but it hurt. It was all she could do not to leap off the chair. He had blasted a huge hole in her nose, she could tell.
‘Taihoa,’ he said, pressing a pad against the side of her nose. ‘This’ll bleed a bit.’
At last he swabbed her face and held up a hand mirror so she could see the stud. The side of her nose was red and already swelling around the tiny blue bead. She touched her nose gingerly. The hole couldn’t be as big as it felt. She grinned at her changed image in the mirror.
‘Okay, you done,’ the guy said eventually, stripping off his gloves and chucking them in an overflowing bin. ‘You kin go.’
‘What about aftercare and stuff?’ Jaz asked. Surely there was more to it than this casual dismissal? Part of her wanted his approval and acknowledgement that this was a big deal.
‘Sheet from the counter on way out. Get cleansers from a chemist, okay?’ He was already leaving the room, no longer interested.
The others crowded around her. She prised up the edge of the patch on her stomach and looked eagerly at her new navel bar.
‘Not bad,’ admitted Ange, peering at it critically.
‘Yee - hah!’ Jaz couldn’t help herself. She looked at it again. The blue jewel glowed back at her. The others grinned at her, generous enough to overlook such un-cool excitement. Revelling in their approval of her new look, Jaz picked up the faintly printed care sheet and swaggered out of the shop.