The Surfacing Read Online Free PDF Page B

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bother to light the lamp. Sooner or later, he supposed, someone would open the door
and jeer at him for sitting in the dark. The next day, he walked inland with her
over the hills. In three hours of walking they did not see so much as a hare. The
day after, Myer and Brooks announced they were taking a boat round the far side of
the island, into the Waigat Strait. The cliffs there showed open seams of coal, and
Myer wanted to know more of their quality, and the prospects for mining. DeHaven
said he would accompany them, it would give him a chance to tend the sick. Rink,
of course, insisted on going along to guide and translate, and MacDonald went to
baptize. It all worked out perfectly.
    10th July
    He was standing at the upstairs window, watching the men below on the beach, at the
tubs. The curtains were drawn, but he held them open a sliver, just enough to see.
He could feel it stirring inside him, the wish to be down there with them, splashing
and shoving and fooling about. He could have gone down, certainly. No one would turn
him away. But he liked them wild and unruly, and in his presence they were tame.
    It was all horseplay, naturally. The first man who rinsed himself off got a pat
on the back from everyone, praising his frame, his strength. It was Cabot, Morgan
saw. They let him go off to the towels, and waited for him to discover the crime.
What they wanted, of course, was a blaze of curses, a mad wail.
    Morgan watched him traipse mournfully back to the tubs. He’d thought he was done,
but now had to get back in the water, to rinse off the soap. They welcomed him back
like a long-lost son – hugged him and ruffled his hair, shook his hand heartily, begged him to leave them never more. Once he’d rinsed himself off, he stood up again
to leave, but the others had already formed a guard of honour, that he had to pass
through.
    Cake! someone cried, and instantly every man was rubbing a hand up his own backside.
Cabot tried to thrash his way free. He was too slow, too weak. There was a long howl
of outrage as the hands were smeared all over him.
    In the bedroom, behind his back, she’d seen him shaking with laughter and wanted
to know why. She’d been stalking, for something to share. Down at the tubs, Cabot
was roaring and flailing now, like a panicked child. Morgan watched him plunge back
under the water, frantically scrubbing himself with soap. He looked like a man scalded
or burned. Without even turning around, Morgan waved her away, shaking his head.
Afterwards, Cabot tried to leave again, wearing a furious face for protection, and
this time they actually held him down. The screams must have been heard all over
the island; certainly she heard them there in the room, and came to stand beside
him, to see what the matter was.
    What are they doing? she asked. In her voice a hint of fear, like a faint foreign
accent. Are they trying to drown him? Why don’t you shout at them? You must make
them stop.
    Morgan merely flapped his hand again, to flap her away. His only real concern, for
the moment, was not to laugh out loud. It was one of the voices he wanted her never
to hear.
    The third time, as a defence, Cabot rubbed his own backside and brandished the hand
as he made his way out of the tub; then stood whingeing and lost at the bottom of
the steps – holding the spare hand strangely aloft, wondering what to do with it.
    Morgan pulled the curtains together and turned to face the twilighted room. They’re
just playing, he told her. It’s been a hard enough haul for them, these past few
weeks. They’re just letting off a little steam.
    He lets the towel fall to the floor, balances himself on one leg, and lifts the other
over the side of the bath. As it touches the water, he lets out a long, solemn breath.
It is too close to scalding. Delicately, he dips the foot in and out, and each time
tries to leave it in a little longer. Once the foot has learned to trust the heat,
he should be able to lower it all the way;