Read Online Call of the Undertow by Linda Cracknell - Free Book Online
Authors: Linda Cracknell
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‘These show relative heights and depths of land and sea.’
He was watching, apparently mesmerised, his breathing audible. ‘What’s that?’ He pointed at a small island, blue-lined, just off the coast of Senegal.
She enlarged it till the island filled the screen. ‘Gorèe,’ she said.
She dropped the layers back, one on top of the other so that the fort on the island’s north end fell into place, the castle at its southern tip, and the label ‘House of Slaves’
appeared on its eastern bulge.
Trothan pointed at the label. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It was an important trading post for slaves.’
‘Slaves?’
‘They rounded up Africans on the mainland, held them in that building till they were taken away on ships by their new owners.’
‘Owners?’
‘I’m afraid people bought them. They had to work for nothing in places like Jamaica.’ She told him then about the Oswalds of Dunnet who must have owned many slaves.
Trothan fell quiet.
She swung her seat around to look at him. ‘You could do your own map in layers too. That’s how all cartographers work.’
‘Have you been there?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘So how do you know?’
‘Just part of my research.’
‘Will you show the slaves on the map?’
‘Not exactly. This is mostly for a book of geography about now. A reference map. An Atlas.’
His eyes were fixed on the screen as if willing it to represent more.
She stood up. ‘Come on, let’s look at yours again.’
They went back through to the sitting room table and leant over his sketch pad. ‘Have you walked all these burns?’ she asked, noting the intricacy of their routes and
tributaries.
‘Yes.’ He seemed surprised that she would doubt it.
‘A proper professional,’ she said. ‘Let’s get you set up for doing your own layers. Do you fancy that?’
He nodded.
‘You’ll have to draw them onto film though. I need the computer myself.’
She dug out several A2 sheets of film and filled her long-unused set of Rotring pens with ink. He settled down at the table with the equipment.
‘I’d suggest five layers,’ she said. ‘Like I’ve just shown you, except we’ll miss out the height and depth shadings. You can start with the shoreline and
rivers.’
She could see his project was going to be original and ambitious; that his flamboyant instincts might need some taming. Sensing that she should leave him to it, she stood back a little,
anticipating.
He hesitated for a moment with the pen poised over the first film, and then he began to draw.
SEVEN
Trothan came to Flotsam Cottage regularly after that, slipping into a pattern without discussion or agreement. He washed up in the hours after school and always seemed to be
starving. She started buying in crisps and baking extra bread. She’d continued to enjoy making bread: the sense of the dough rising, transforming, as she worked on the computer or went out
and walked. But she always baked the loaves in the afternoons, so that the homely smell greeted Trothan. She even leafed further into the baking book and found a recipe for butterscotch cake. She
remembered having it herself as a kid. He wolfed it as hungrily as she did.
‘We never have cakes at home,’ he said.
It warmed her afternoon.
Once he appeared with a feather caught in his hair and she often had to resist the impulse to get all his clothes off him and give them a wash and tumble before allowing him to leave. There was
too much dignity about the child to treat him like this, she began to realise. But she wondered at the negligence of his parents and whether they knew he was here.
She sent a note back home with him:
‘Dear Nora, Trothan has shown a great deal of interest in map-making. I’m happy for him to come and learn bits and pieces from me here after
school. I assume you’re happy with that, unless I hear otherwise.’
And she wrote at the bottom her phone number.
There was no response.
He used his recent sketches to draw the
He was watching, apparently mesmerised, his breathing audible. ‘What’s that?’ He pointed at a small island, blue-lined, just off the coast of Senegal.
She enlarged it till the island filled the screen. ‘Gorèe,’ she said.
She dropped the layers back, one on top of the other so that the fort on the island’s north end fell into place, the castle at its southern tip, and the label ‘House of Slaves’
appeared on its eastern bulge.
Trothan pointed at the label. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It was an important trading post for slaves.’
‘Slaves?’
‘They rounded up Africans on the mainland, held them in that building till they were taken away on ships by their new owners.’
‘Owners?’
‘I’m afraid people bought them. They had to work for nothing in places like Jamaica.’ She told him then about the Oswalds of Dunnet who must have owned many slaves.
Trothan fell quiet.
She swung her seat around to look at him. ‘You could do your own map in layers too. That’s how all cartographers work.’
‘Have you been there?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘So how do you know?’
‘Just part of my research.’
‘Will you show the slaves on the map?’
‘Not exactly. This is mostly for a book of geography about now. A reference map. An Atlas.’
His eyes were fixed on the screen as if willing it to represent more.
She stood up. ‘Come on, let’s look at yours again.’
They went back through to the sitting room table and leant over his sketch pad. ‘Have you walked all these burns?’ she asked, noting the intricacy of their routes and
tributaries.
‘Yes.’ He seemed surprised that she would doubt it.
‘A proper professional,’ she said. ‘Let’s get you set up for doing your own layers. Do you fancy that?’
He nodded.
‘You’ll have to draw them onto film though. I need the computer myself.’
She dug out several A2 sheets of film and filled her long-unused set of Rotring pens with ink. He settled down at the table with the equipment.
‘I’d suggest five layers,’ she said. ‘Like I’ve just shown you, except we’ll miss out the height and depth shadings. You can start with the shoreline and
rivers.’
She could see his project was going to be original and ambitious; that his flamboyant instincts might need some taming. Sensing that she should leave him to it, she stood back a little,
anticipating.
He hesitated for a moment with the pen poised over the first film, and then he began to draw.
SEVEN
Trothan came to Flotsam Cottage regularly after that, slipping into a pattern without discussion or agreement. He washed up in the hours after school and always seemed to be
starving. She started buying in crisps and baking extra bread. She’d continued to enjoy making bread: the sense of the dough rising, transforming, as she worked on the computer or went out
and walked. But she always baked the loaves in the afternoons, so that the homely smell greeted Trothan. She even leafed further into the baking book and found a recipe for butterscotch cake. She
remembered having it herself as a kid. He wolfed it as hungrily as she did.
‘We never have cakes at home,’ he said.
It warmed her afternoon.
Once he appeared with a feather caught in his hair and she often had to resist the impulse to get all his clothes off him and give them a wash and tumble before allowing him to leave. There was
too much dignity about the child to treat him like this, she began to realise. But she wondered at the negligence of his parents and whether they knew he was here.
She sent a note back home with him:
‘Dear Nora, Trothan has shown a great deal of interest in map-making. I’m happy for him to come and learn bits and pieces from me here after
school. I assume you’re happy with that, unless I hear otherwise.’
And she wrote at the bottom her phone number.
There was no response.
He used his recent sketches to draw the
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