Poesy Swift
On the third day out from Sydney, Charlie came and leaned against the rail beside me. We hung over the side, staring into the churning seawater. Tilly was in one of her moods again and Eliza was having afternoon tea with Lo, so I was glad of his company. Sometimes, when he was sitting, watching the other boys, he reminded me of Chooky, or the sort of boy I hoped Chooky might become.
‘Queensland is out there,’ he said in that soft voice of his. ‘You can almost smell it. Once we get past the last of the coast, everything will feel different. No more Australia. We’re nearly through the Coral Sea and at the Torres Strait but we won’t stop again now until we get to Surabaya.’
‘Sura-what?’ I asked.
‘Surabaya, on the island of Java. We cross the Arafura Sea to get there.’
‘But I thought we were going across the Pacific to America.’
‘Eventually, we’ll get to America,’ said Charlie, not looking at me.
‘What do you mean “eventually”?’
‘Lionel reckons we can’t afford to go to America yet. Old Man Percy told him we have to make some money first. This troupe isn’t as good as the last. Too many of the worst from the old lot and too many green ones that don’t know what they’re doing.’
‘Do you mean me?’
Charlie shrugged. ‘You’re all right,’ he mumbled.
‘I’ll be better by the time we get to America.’
‘I expect so. That won’t be for a year or more. We’ll be going to India first.’
I caught my breath. Tilly had told me so much about America that I could see it, taste it, long for it – but India? I’d read Mr Kipling’s books. India was wild and strange, full of boys and men, wolves and tigers. Yada had told me it was a country of great souls, and her hero Mrs Besant had said that India was the mother of all religions, but in my mind it was a dark place full of monkeys and snakes, holy men and soldiers.
‘Don’t you think they’re like magic words?’ asked Charlie. ‘Arafura, Surabaya,’ he chanted. ‘It’s almost as good as abracadabra.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘That’s some of the route we’re taking. When we get through the Malacca Straits we cross the Bay of Bengal to reach India.’
He smiled and looked at me as if I felt as he did. ‘Say it,’ said Charlie, his green eyes shining. ‘Say it, Poesy. It’s only ten words. Say it like a magic spell. Arafura-Surabaya-Java-Sea-Malacca-Straits-Bay-of-Bengal-INDIA!’
‘Arafura-Surabaya-Java-Sea-Malacca-Straits-Bay-of-Bengal-India,’ I repeated, trying to make the words sink in, willing myself to feel the magic that Charlie heard in those names. But inside, I trembled. The future had grown dark and unknowable.