Read Online A Stone's Throw by Fiona Shaw - Free Book Online Page A

wind.
    The boat drifted, and Meg drifted too, her back to the black ocean, half-sleeping, half-waking. Once she thought she heardJack’s voice. She was cold, her face, her feet, her hands: all numb; she didn’t think, and she didn’t dream. In one pocket her fingers made a cold fist around her mother’s photograph. Beside her, the wounded soldier groaned in his delirium. Once or twice someone fed him brandy; once someone passed her a beaker with water and she drank it down and asked for more, but no more came.
    The dawn woke her properly, first a grey ribbon on the edge of the horizon, then the lifeboat floating in gold. They were alone on the sea, no other boats, nothing that showed any sign of the ship. She was stiff and cramped and she longed to stretch out her legs, and swing her arms. But the wounded soldier leaned against her and he had gone quiet, his eyes closed, his face bone-white and peaceful. Carefully she bent and put her face close to his and listened. He was still breathing, though his breath smelled rank. She couldn’t move without disturbing him, so she stayed as she was, only turning her head to look around.
    She could see the lifeboat properly for the first time, now it was light. A sailor sat up as look-out, but most people seemed to be still sleeping, or dozing, or too exhausted to move, perhaps. She wondered who had passed her the beaker during the night because she had a raging thirst now, and she was hungry. It was difficult to see exactly how many people there were, because they were jammed in every which way, and some lay on the bottom of the boat. But she had a go at counting the heads and got to over forty. As far as she could see it was mostly soldiers, and a few sailors. There were no other civilians; there were no other women. As she watched, a figure inan overcoat, up in the bows, sat up off the floor, wrapped his arms around his body and looked across the sea.
    ‘Mr Richardson!’ Meg exclaimed.
    He turned slowly towards her.
    Meg stared. It was Mr Richardson, but in a single night he had become an old man. His eyes were rheumy and red-rimmed and his face had sunk into itself, so that his cheekbones and chin jutted out and his skin seemed strangely loose. His hair was matted to his head. But most shocking of all was the look he gave her.
    ‘Mr Richardson?’ she said again.
    But he only turned back to the sea.
    The rest of the boat was stirring now, men groaning and muttering, stretching and moving where they could.
    In the stern of the boat three men had taken charge. Meg recognised two of them – a young naval officer by the name of Appleby and a steward. The third was a soldier. He didn’t look much older than Jim, but he was issuing instructions to the nearest soldiers and they were saluting him. Tins, boxes, blankets, barrels of water, a first-aid box were being passed from man to man and stacked up under a piece of tarpaulin, the steward making notes with a stubby pad and pencil. Meg heard snatches of conversation: about water, and food, and when they’d be rescued. The wounded man was heavy against her and she was so tired, and so cold. She closed her eyes against it all and imagined herself alone again.
    ‘Miss?’
    She started. Someone’s hand was on her arm.
    ‘Excuse me?’ the voice said. He spoke quietly, just to her.
    It was Appleby, crouched down beside her. She opened her eyes. His face was very close; she could see the day’s growth on his chin. High above him, a couple of seagulls turned.
    ‘I think he’s badly wounded,’ she said.
    ‘You must come with me,’ he said.
    ‘He was moaning in the night, but he’s been quiet for a while now.’
    ‘I’m sorry, Miss,’ Appleby said. ‘But he didn’t make it.’
    She put a hand to the dead man’s cold cheek.
    ‘I didn’t even know his name,’ she said finally. There was an ache behind her eyes. She didn’t want to cry here. She didn’t want to be seen to cry.
    ‘You need to come with me,’ Appleby