The Trader's Reward Read online

  When Barrett had finished, people applauded and Fergus said, ‘We’ll be happy to have you sing that piece in the concert, Mr Barrett. You have a good voice.’

  Barrett nodded curtly. ‘Thank you. What are you doing in the concert?’

  Mrs Spaulding smiled and said, ‘Why don’t you show him? Sing to us, Mr Deagan. I can never have enough of your wonderful voice.’

  Others called to him to sing, so Fergus shrugged, whispered to the pianist and waited for her to lead him into ‘I Dream of Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair’.

  His voice was both powerful and beautiful. Even people on the other side of the canvas screen fell silent, and when he’d finished, there was a burst of spontaneous applause from all over the deck, not just from the rehearsal area.

  ‘He’s very good, is he not?’ Mrs Spaulding asked Barrett, who nodded with visible reluctance. ‘We’re lucky to have him. If he’s accompanying you, he’ll make your voice sound even better than it usually does.’

  ‘Right then,’ Fergus called. ‘We’ll continue the rehearsal now. Mr Barrett, would you be willing to sing in the choir as well as solo?’

  He scowled but nodded.

  ‘That’s good. The group will sound better with another tenor. Perhaps the choir would like to go through their piece now.’

  Cara, who’d stayed behind some other ladies, took a deep breath and moved forward.

  Barrett stiffened as he saw her join the group.

  Fergus watched carefully.

  Barrett opened his mouth, then closed it and moved to join the group, standing as far away from Cara as he could.

  Fergus exchanged relieved glances with Rémi as he took his own place. The fellow seemed to have calmed down a little.

  For the moment.

  After the evening meal, Fergus and Cara went up on deck and stood by the rail. ‘The rehearsal went well, don’t you think?’ he asked her.

  ‘Very well. You have a wonderful voice.’

  ‘I enjoy singing.’

  ‘I think you could have gone into the music halls and made a fortune, Fergus. You’re that good.’

  ‘I’d rather work with machinery. I sing for pleasure, but parading about on a stage is not something I’d want to do all the time.’

  ‘But you’re such a talented man.’

  ‘I’m a man who loves the outdoors and the early mornings, not smoky music halls and late nights. And what sort of lives do music hall artists lead? They’re always travelling round the country, appearing in one town today, another tomorrow. I’d hardly ever be at home, and I want to be with my children, bring them up properly, do better than our Da did with us.’

  He shrugged and stared across the water. ‘I’ve been offered singing engagements more than once. I turned them down even before Eileen fell ill. She was furious with me, but a person only gets one life and must live it as seems best.’

  They began to stroll along the deck. ‘I was discussing your situation with Rémi. We’re fairly hopeful that Barrett will keep quiet till after the concert, because he wants to show off his own voice without upsetting me enough to get thrown out of the choir.’

  ‘And what will happen after the concert? I don’t trust Jeffrey Barrett. He’ll get bored again and stir up mischief. ’

  ‘Rémi says he’s a drunkard.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. Even when he was younger, he used to boast about stealing from his father’s wine barrel.’

  ‘The longer Barrett leaves it to accuse you, the less people will be likely to believe him. After all, he’ll have been singing in a concert with you. Why would he do that if he believes you’re a fallen woman?’

  But she shook her head, her expression sombre. ‘Mud clings.’

  He took her hand. ‘Ah, let’s enjoy the moonlight on the water tonight and leave our problems till tomorrow.’

  Cara took his arm again. She did enjoy talking to him, being with him … even touching him, to her surprise.

  Barrett was insufferable at dinner. People were complimenting him on his voice, telling him how wonderful he was, and Rémi could see that he believed them.

  Why was a foolish fellow like that going out to the Orient? He’d never make a businessman.

  When Rémi went back to the cabin, he found it empty. It was quarter of an hour before Barrett joined him.

  The younger man pulled his hip flask out of his pocket and waved it about. ‘Fancy a drink? We may as well polish this off, because the steward’s going to refill it later, once the chief steward’s out of the way. They stock quite good brandy, actually.’

  ‘No, thank you. I don’t have much of a head for alcohol.’

  ‘Who wants a head for it? The pleasure is to get drunk and enjoy a rosier view of the world.’

  When there was a tap on the door a short time later, he stood up quickly. ‘It’ll be for me.’

  The steward was there with a small decanter of what looked like red wine and two glasses on a tray. ‘Here you are, sir. I hope you both enjoy your wine.’

  ‘You can take one of the glasses away,’ Rémi said. ‘I didn’t order anything to drink.’

  The steward looked at Barrett.

  He winked. ‘I’ll drink his share. Here’s my flask. See if you can fill it, there’s a good chap.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but the chief steward has locked up the spirits, and I can’t get access.’

  Barrett took out a coin and fingered it. ‘Surely you can find a way?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. It’s as much as my job’s worth. That’s why I could only bring a little wine and say it was for two people.’ He backed out, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Barrett poured himself a glass of wine and tossed it down as if it were water.

  ‘You drink a lot,’ Rémi said disapprovingly. He hadn’t expected to share a cabin with a drunkard.

  ‘You sound like my father. Why shouldn’t a fellow enjoy a drink or two? Especially when he’s away from the damned watchdogs. Besides, I know how to hold my drink. I won’t be disgracing myself.’ He mimed vomiting and laughed at his companion’s expression of disgust.

  The wine was soon finished and after a while, Barrett began to talk, seeming to be in an excitable mood. Rémi didn’t try to stop him. An occasional question would bring more information spilling out, though the voice offering it was slightly slurred, for all Barrett’s claims of being able to handle his drink.

  Rémi was quite amused as it became evident that Barrett too was a remittance man, only his father was sending him to Bombay, where a job was waiting for him. There would be a generous allowance as long as he stayed out there.

  ‘I’ve paid my fare,’ Barrett shouted suddenly. ‘The chief steward has no right to stop me drinking! What’s a man to do with himself in the evenings if he can’t have a little drinkie?’

  ‘You’ve had a couple of drinks and you had wine with your meal as well.’

  ‘Two or three drinks over a whole evening are neither here nor there. And what’s it got to do with you, anyway? You’re as bad as my father. You old men are all alike.’

  Rémi gave up trying to talk to him and went to bed, turning his back on the other man, trying to ignore the muttering and snatches of song.

  He was woken by a series of yells and turned up the lamp hanging on the wall nearby, wondering what on earth had happened now.

  Barrett was sitting up in bed, shaking.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nightmare. I’m prone to ’em when I don’t get enough to drink.’

  There was a knock on the door and the chief steward opened it without being invited inside. He looked from one man to the other, clearly wanting to find out what had caused the noise.

  ‘Mr Barrett had a nightmare,’ Rémi said. ‘Sorry if he disturbed the other passengers.’

  Barrett waved one hand in dismissal. ‘I’m all right now.’ He lay down again and turned his back to them.

  The other two men exchanged worried glances and Rémi followed the steward
out of the cabin.

  ‘He’s been drinking rather heavily,’ he said in a low voice. ‘He got upset tonight when he was only allowed a small decanter of claret and no brandy.’

  ‘Where was he getting the brandy from before?’

  ‘One of the stewards was filling his hip flask every evening.’

  ‘I saw that my stores were going down and put a stop to that. We can’t have him getting drunk every night and disturbing the others. I’ll just tidy up then leave you to your sleep.’

  The chief steward went back into the cabin and before he took the tray away, paused by Rémi’s bed to say in a low voice, ‘I hope you’ve not been disturbed too badly. I’m afraid we don’t have any other cabins free.’

  ‘I’ll cope. But if you could continue to restrict the supply of drink to Mr Barrett, I’d be grateful. Maybe if he only has a little with meals he’ll not get these nightmares?’

  ‘I shall see to it, sir. You’re not the only person to have been disturbed tonight. If Mr Barrett doesn’t calm down, the doctor will have to be brought in to give him a sleeping draught.’

  The following day, the chief steward allowed Barrett one glass of wine with his evening meal, then refused to serve him any more. ‘Sorry, sir. Doctor’s orders.’

  Barrett didn’t stay long after that and didn’t join the other passengers on deck, either.

  ‘This is all your fault!’ he flung at Rémi when he returned to the cabin. ‘You told the steward to stop bringing me drink because you’re a damned killjoy.’

  ‘It was you who brought the chief steward here last night by your loud nightmares.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Weldon never came here last night.’

  ‘He definitely did. Don’t you remember?’

  There was silence, then Barrett shouted, ‘How can I remember something which didn’t happen? You’re just saying that to upset me. I’m going to ask for a change of cabin.’

  ‘I hope you get it.’

  Unfortunately, no one was willing to share with Barrett, so as he’d expected, Rémi had to put up with him.

  Deprived of drink, Barrett alternated between gloominess and outright anger. He started talking in his sleep and at one point began to yell so loudly after another nightmare that Rémi felt it necessary to wake him as quickly as possible.

  ‘You’ll disturb the other passengers again.’

  ‘To hell with the other passengers.’

  The steward on night duty peered round the door. ‘Do you need any help, Mr Newland?’

  Barrett yelled, ‘No, he doesn’t. Go to hell, you!’

  The steward looked at Rémi and said quietly, ‘I’ll be nearby if you need me.’

  ‘You’d better not call him back,’ Barrett snapped when the door had closed.

  ‘I didn’t call him this time. It was your noise which brought him.’

  Barrett behaved himself at rehearsals the following day, thank goodness. It was as if the music soothed something in him.

  The next night was even more disturbed, however, with the steward appearing again because of the noise. Rémi began to consider asking if he could sleep in the day lounge.

  During the next day’s rehearsals, Barrett began to mutter under his breath and scowl at Cara.

  Rémi and Fergus exchanged glances and both kept their eyes on him, ready to step in if he caused any trouble.

  Barrett didn’t say anything obvious, but continued to mutter, though it was obvious whose presence was upsetting him.

  The other performers kept their distance from him at rehearsals, as did the cabin passengers during his brief appearances among them for meals.

  The concert was to take place the evening before they were due to dock in Port Said, so they only had a few days to rehearse, after which they’d be sailing down the famous new canal to Suez. Rémi was looking forward to seeing what some had called an engineering wonder of the modern world.

  The stewards had nearly all been through the canal before, and told everyone there would be a lot to watch. It seemed the canal was so narrow they were close enough to shore to see the local citizens going about their business: Arabs in flowing robes with their camels. And they could even converse with other ships’ passengers as their paths crossed.

  ‘Is the canal wide enough for ships to pass one another, then?’ Fergus asked a steward one day.

  ‘Not over most of the length, sir, but the French who built the canal made wider places called gares for stopping or passing, and of course, there’s plenty of room in the Great Bitter Lake, which is very salty.’

  He’d gathered an audience by now, so continued to share information. ‘The canal is about a hundred miles long. The water level is slightly higher at the Red Sea, so the flow is towards the Mediterranean.’

  ‘I never thought I’d see such marvels,’ Ma said.

  ‘I love the warm weather,’ Pa said. ‘If they call this winter, what’s summer like?’

  ‘Very hot, the books say,’ Cara told him. ‘And in the southern hemisphere, the seasons are the other way round, so it’s summer in Australia now.’

  She picked up Niamh and smiled as the chubby little hand grabbed at her hair. ‘I think this one is enjoying the warmer weather too.’

  A gong rang out and she gave Niamh back to Ma. ‘Final rehearsal. I hope you’re all looking forward to the concert tonight.’

  Ma beamed at her. ‘Very much.’

  15

  Bram smiled when he saw a letter from Mr Kieran in the post. He loved to hear how things were going in Ireland and England, though he’d never regretted moving to Western Australia and considered this his home now. This letter felt thinner than usual, though, which was disappointing.

  ‘Well, go on! Open it,’ Isabella said. ‘There are no customers at the moment, so you can read about Ireland in peace, and shed a sentimental tear or two.’

  ‘I don’t cry over the letters!’ he denied indignantly.

  ‘Bram, darling, you blink your eyes so furiously sometimes, it’s a wonder the tears don’t fly out across the room.’ She came to link her arm in his. ‘Go on. I enjoy hearing about your old village and the Largans. One day, maybe we’ll go back and see Shilmara.’

  He shuddered. ‘I couldn’t face it. I’m never going to sea again. Never. You know how seasick I get. We should—’

  She was not to be distracted. ‘Never mind that. Open the letter.’

  He glanced round, tempted, though he’d never neglect his business. But there were only a couple of customers in the middle section of the Bazaar and no one was in the front part of the building except for them. He slit the envelope carefully and pulled out a single sheet of paper.

  As he finished reading it, he wept openly, turning his back to the entrance and half-hiding behind a swathe of silk that Isabella had put up to tempt customers. He gulped and struggled desperately to keep quiet, using his handkerchief to dry his eyes, then needing to use it again.

  ‘What’s wrong? Bram, what’s wrong? Tell me.’ Isabella pulled him close and cradled him in her arms as if he was a child, but the tears continued to leak out, so she picked up the letter from where it had fallen on the counter and read it.

  My dear Bram,

  I’m writing in haste to catch the next mail ship and give you notice of a coming surprise, a pleasant one, I hope.

  Your brother Fergus wrote to me again a few weeks ago. His wife died recently in childbirth and on her deathbed she made him promise to join you and the rest of your family in Australia.

  I know it’s been your dream to have as many of your family as possible living nearby, so I didn’t hesitate to assure him that you’d welcome him with open arms and would pay their fares.

  Fergus has two sons and a baby daughter. His mother and father-in-law have only him and his children now, so they’ll be coming with him to Australia.

  And a recent development is that he’s married a young woman who lost her own baby and who was able to feed his little Niamh. Apparently his wife also made him
promise to marry again within the year.

  Julia and I like Cara and think she’s a good match for Fergus.

  On the back of this letter is the full list of those coming to Australia and I trust you’ll be able to get permission from the Governor for them to settle there – I’m not quite sure what needs doing at your end, but I’m sure you do, or that you’ll find out.

  Your friend,

  Kieran Largan

  PS My wife sends her best wishes to you and yours, and if you see my brother Conn, tell him I’ll be writing to him soon.

  On the back of the letter was the list.

  Fergus Deagan, 31 years old

  Cara Deagan, wife, 22

  Sean Deagan, 10

  Malachy Deagan, 6

  Niamh Deagan, a few weeks old as I write this

  Patrick Grady, 55

  Alana Grady, 53

  Isabella smiled at the piece of paper. ‘Oh, Bram, darling, that’s wonderful news! Absolutely wonderful.’

  ‘I’m a sentimental fool.’

  ‘You’re a loving man, that’s all. Tell me about Fergus.’

  He hesitated. ‘Well, he’s my next brother. There was one stillborn between us, so Fergus is nearly three years younger than me. He’ll turn thirty-two later this year.’

  ‘And?’ she prompted.

  ‘We weren’t enemies or anything, but we weren’t close. Well, he was always trying to outdo me, wasn’t he? Or I was showing him who was in charge, because I was stronger and older. You know how it is in families. Lads can be so silly, wanting to be top of the dunghill, like crowing cocks.’

  She didn’t know how it was, hadn’t had brothers and sisters, but didn’t remind him of that, just waited for him to continue.

  ‘We neither of us liked school, but I did better than him. Fergus was always playing hooky, off in the woods trying to build something.’ Bram smiled. ‘He dammed the stream once and made a big muddy pond. Old Connolly’s pig had to be pulled out of it. Fergus got a tanning for that.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’ve told you before how difficult Da was. When Fergus began working, Da beat him for refusing to hand over all his money, and did it more than once. Da was bigger at first, but Fergus grew big enough to fight back. You should have heard Mam scream at that. In the end, Fergus ran off to England and we didn’t hear from him again.’