disbelief.
There was no plane.
The hangar went on for dark, windowless miles as far as Nia could see, dimly lit by lights on the walls. A noise like thunder. Kitbags lay on a net, strung by swaying ropes from iron hooks attached to girders. Nia felt sorry for the kitbags. When her father undid the toggles, you could dig out his wash bag and unroll it, pulling out his comb, greasy from his lovely head. And his razor, flannel and nail clippers, each of which was interestingly dear to her. The kitbags hung above the midget men below. Everything hung from something. For the floor was awash withvileness. Men lay in hammocks, their heads hanging over the sides. Beside each was a bucket with a mop.
Nia pulled out her abhorred ribbon and held it out over the void. Then she dropped it into the dark stink, watching it fall on to a metal table with three enormous kettles on it, their spouts all pointing forward. She sent her kirby-grip after the ribbon and felt the relief that came when your hair stopped pulling tight. But where was the door? It had somehow become a wall. She panicked; pelted up and down on the platform. Even when she found the iron door, Nia was too puny to pull it open.
It opened from the other side. Nia clung to the man, sheltering under the peak of his cap. She would like such an important cap. His lah-de-dah voice marked him as an officer – even she knew that. Everything would be all right now. She rode in his arms away from the noise and foulness. His name was Alex, he said, and what was her name? Was it Monkey?
No, she said. I am Miss Nia Roberts.
Oh, I thought it was Monkey. Are you sure?
They joked and he jounced her up and down and tossed her in the air and caught her, and Nia laughed with a high pitched squeal, looking anxiously from side to side as they navigated the labyrinth.
The Nice Lady, when found, seemed obscurely more irked with the man in the peaked cap than with the stray child.
‘It is beyond a joke,’ she said.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’
When he went away with a wave of his hand, Nia dismissed and forgot him.
‘I hope you’re well pleased with yourself, madam,’ said the Nice Lady.
‘Yes, thank you.’ Somewhat quenched, Nia clung to the hand that grasped hers.
The Nice Lady looked down sharply, alert for insolence but uncertain of irony.
3
The cabin was empty but for a shadowy girl tugging back the sheets on the only unclaimed bunk. Ailsa passively observed the stranger’s movements as she dragged a comb through dark, tangled hair without bothering to look in a mirror, bobby pin between her teeth. Seeing that Ailsa was awake, she came over to crouch by her bunk.
‘Feeling rotten?’
‘A bit grim.’
‘I’ve got some salts you sniff. Somewhere. Hang on.’ She rummaged in her bag. ‘No idea why they work but they do seem to help.’
Ailsa breathed in peppermint balm. The stranger’s eyes were liquid and dark, iris melting into pupil, beneath the wings of her eyebrows. Terribly intense but arresting and oddly familiar. An ugly-beautiful face with a large mouth and perfect teeth; skin cinnamon-brown. I know you from somewhere . Joe would have called her a darkie : how odious of him, and Ailsa was cross with her husband anda bit ashamed, although he wasn’t there and would have kept quiet if he had been.
‘What I do is stay up on deck as long as I can and get the benefit of the air until I’ve got my sea-legs. Think you could make it if I gave you a hand?’
‘Honestly, I daren’t risk it. You go.’
‘I’m Mona, by the way. Jacobs.’
‘Ailsa Roberts.’
‘Now, what can I get you?’
Her voice was cultivated, every sound precisely pronounced. Toffs’ English. Ailsa lay back against the pillow and craved Lucozade. The girl was no sooner gone than she was back with cherry Corona and ice cubes; ciggies such as Ailsa had never seen before, in a cylindrical tin with its own opener. The ice cubes brought relief. Ailsa’s stomach calmed and the
There was no plane.
The hangar went on for dark, windowless miles as far as Nia could see, dimly lit by lights on the walls. A noise like thunder. Kitbags lay on a net, strung by swaying ropes from iron hooks attached to girders. Nia felt sorry for the kitbags. When her father undid the toggles, you could dig out his wash bag and unroll it, pulling out his comb, greasy from his lovely head. And his razor, flannel and nail clippers, each of which was interestingly dear to her. The kitbags hung above the midget men below. Everything hung from something. For the floor was awash withvileness. Men lay in hammocks, their heads hanging over the sides. Beside each was a bucket with a mop.
Nia pulled out her abhorred ribbon and held it out over the void. Then she dropped it into the dark stink, watching it fall on to a metal table with three enormous kettles on it, their spouts all pointing forward. She sent her kirby-grip after the ribbon and felt the relief that came when your hair stopped pulling tight. But where was the door? It had somehow become a wall. She panicked; pelted up and down on the platform. Even when she found the iron door, Nia was too puny to pull it open.
It opened from the other side. Nia clung to the man, sheltering under the peak of his cap. She would like such an important cap. His lah-de-dah voice marked him as an officer – even she knew that. Everything would be all right now. She rode in his arms away from the noise and foulness. His name was Alex, he said, and what was her name? Was it Monkey?
No, she said. I am Miss Nia Roberts.
Oh, I thought it was Monkey. Are you sure?
They joked and he jounced her up and down and tossed her in the air and caught her, and Nia laughed with a high pitched squeal, looking anxiously from side to side as they navigated the labyrinth.
The Nice Lady, when found, seemed obscurely more irked with the man in the peaked cap than with the stray child.
‘It is beyond a joke,’ she said.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’
When he went away with a wave of his hand, Nia dismissed and forgot him.
‘I hope you’re well pleased with yourself, madam,’ said the Nice Lady.
‘Yes, thank you.’ Somewhat quenched, Nia clung to the hand that grasped hers.
The Nice Lady looked down sharply, alert for insolence but uncertain of irony.
3
The cabin was empty but for a shadowy girl tugging back the sheets on the only unclaimed bunk. Ailsa passively observed the stranger’s movements as she dragged a comb through dark, tangled hair without bothering to look in a mirror, bobby pin between her teeth. Seeing that Ailsa was awake, she came over to crouch by her bunk.
‘Feeling rotten?’
‘A bit grim.’
‘I’ve got some salts you sniff. Somewhere. Hang on.’ She rummaged in her bag. ‘No idea why they work but they do seem to help.’
Ailsa breathed in peppermint balm. The stranger’s eyes were liquid and dark, iris melting into pupil, beneath the wings of her eyebrows. Terribly intense but arresting and oddly familiar. An ugly-beautiful face with a large mouth and perfect teeth; skin cinnamon-brown. I know you from somewhere . Joe would have called her a darkie : how odious of him, and Ailsa was cross with her husband anda bit ashamed, although he wasn’t there and would have kept quiet if he had been.
‘What I do is stay up on deck as long as I can and get the benefit of the air until I’ve got my sea-legs. Think you could make it if I gave you a hand?’
‘Honestly, I daren’t risk it. You go.’
‘I’m Mona, by the way. Jacobs.’
‘Ailsa Roberts.’
‘Now, what can I get you?’
Her voice was cultivated, every sound precisely pronounced. Toffs’ English. Ailsa lay back against the pillow and craved Lucozade. The girl was no sooner gone than she was back with cherry Corona and ice cubes; ciggies such as Ailsa had never seen before, in a cylindrical tin with its own opener. The ice cubes brought relief. Ailsa’s stomach calmed and the
Similar Books
The Collector Book One: Mana Leak
Daniel I Russell
Desire in Any Language
Anastasia Vitsky
Bitch Factor
Chris Rogers
The Sacrifice Game
Brian D’Amato
5 Peppermint Grove
Michelle Jackson
Mission to Marathon
Geoffrey Trease
When in Rio
Delphine Dryden
Finding the Forger
Libby Sternberg
Shall We Tell the President?
Jeffrey Archer