Each takes meaning from what he sees. But no two will be found to have seen the same.
The Bullet-Catcher’s Handbook
I awoke already sitting up, my fists bunching the cotton of my nightgown above my breasts. There was a vague sense of something loud snagging in the last moments of my dream. Then I heard running feet and an urgent whisper outside the boat.
My father’s pistol was too well hidden to lay hands on in a rush. Leaping from the bunk, I snatched a shawl and slipped down the gangway to grab the sharpest knife from the galley.
Holding my breath, I listened. The only sound was blood rushing in my ears. Pulling the curtain an inch I peered through the porthole. Two figures stood a few yards away, leaning together. One whispered with a cupped hand to the other’s ear. Then they stood straight and I recognised them as my neighbours, the coal boatman and his eldest son.
Sliding the bolt on the hatch, I climbed a step and peered out.
“Miss Barnabus?” whispered the coal boatman.
Gathering the shawl closer around me, I stepped up onto the aft deck. “What’s happening?”
“Thieves, miss.”
“Almost had them,” said his son.
“How many?”
They looked at each other. “Could have been two,” said the coal boatman. “Three maybe?”
“We heard them though,” said his son.
“Knocked a painted jug from off the roof.”
I felt the muscles of my arms loosening. My heart began to slow. “What did they take?”
“We scared them off before they had a chance.”
“You don’t think it could have been an animal?” I asked.
The men looked at each other. In the gloom I couldn’t make out their expressions. But there was uncertainty in the way they stood. I relaxed some more. The thought of the two of them blundering around in the dark might have been comic. But the misadventures of vigilante groups often caused tragedy. I silently thanked providence the coal boatman didn’t own a gun.
“They’ve taken stuff before,” said the son. “The thieves I mean.”
“What sort of stuff?”
“There was a quarter loaf of bread on Sunday.”
“And two good rashers of bacon gone last week,” added the father, though with less certainty. Perhaps he had needed to hear himself say it to realise how it would sound. The bacon thief who knocked over a jug then doubtless found a warm spot to lie in, licking the grease from its paws.
The silence became awkward.
“I could ask my brother to look into it,” I suggested, trying to help them save face.
“That would be grand.” The coal boatman seemed genuinely relieved. “He could come now. A fresh trail better than a cold one.”
“He’s out. I’m sorry.”
“Ah yes. His work, I suppose.”
The two men looked at each other.
“In any case,” I said, “the thieves’ll be long gone now. They’ll not trouble you again tonight, for sure.”
“Right you are.” The coal boatman lifted a hand, as if to touch his cap, though he must have rushed from his bed, for he had forgotten to put one on. “I’ll say goodnight, then.”
They started walking back towards their boat, but the son broke step and turned. “The bacon was locked in the pie-safe,” he said. “Tell your brother that.”
To be lonely is a sorrow. And worse when the world believes you have a brother for company. Such was the necessity of my double life. But until recently, I had Julia to confide in. Now we had been separated by distance and by the argument that had tainted our parting.
I opened the stove door, still warm from the evening. With a spill of twisted paper in one hand I blew on the coals brightening them from grey to orange. First there was a thread of smoke, then flame on the tip of the spill. From that I lit the candle lantern.
Soon fresh sticks were crackling. Though it was a luxury I couldn’t afford, I put two shining lumps of anthracite among the flames. There was no milk or sugar on the boat. But even a cup of black tea can warm the hands.
I had not been sleeping well. The visitation of the constables and the hanging of Florence May had somehow become tangled in my mind. Bad dreams woke me more often than sunshine.
The crude Kingdom flag was now gummed in place in Bessie’s porthole window. No one on the wharf had mentioned it. But I’d detected a coolness from some of my neighbours. And weekend tourists whispered to each other as they passed. One family even shifted to the other side of the towpath.
In the daytime I could banish such thoughts and turn my mind to matters that needed attention. But at night it was not so easy. Seeking distraction, I fetched pen, ink and paper from my cabin and placed them on the galley table next to the lantern.
Dear Julia,
By now you will have arrived in Derby and I do hope sincerely that you are settling. I am imagining you meeting a string of eligible lawyers in the days to come. It is only a fancy, but the thought of you crossing them off a list one by one is making me smile. For I do not think you will find any to compare to your friend in London.
Here, things continue as always. The coal boatman believes all manner of brigands abroad on the wharf at night and has begged for my brother’s help in detecting them. But I think a saucer of milk is more likely to catch this burglar than any search for clues!
I am longing to hear of your adventures. Please write when you have time.
Your friend,
Elizabeth