Read Online Offshore by Penelope Fitzgerald - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Penelope Fitzgerald
Ads: Link
brightly smiling photograph presided over their cabin. They had got the photograph as a fold-in from Disc Weekly . If you couldn’t afford the original records, there were smaller ones you could buy at the Woolworths in the King’s Road, which sounded quite like.
Like the rest of London’s river children, they knew that the mud was a source of wealth, but were too shrewd to go into competition with the locals from Partisan Street for coins, medals and lugworms. The lugworms, in any case, Willis had told them, were better on Limehouse Reach. Round about Grace herself, the great river deposited little but mounds of plastic containers.
Every expedition meant crossing the Bridge, because the current on Battersea Reach, between the two bridges, sets towards the Surrey side. The responsibility for these outings, which might or might not be successful, had worn between Martha’s eyebrows a faint frown, not quite vertical, which exactly resembled Richard’s.
‘We’ll go bricking to-day,’ she said. ‘How’s the tide?’
‘High water Gravesend 3 a.m., London Bridge 4, Battersea Bridge 4.30,’ Tilda chanted rapidly. ‘Spring tide, seven and a half hour’s ebb, low tide at 12.’
Martha surveyed her sister doubtfully. With so much specialised knowledge, which would qualify her for nothing much except a pilot’s certificate, with her wellingtons over which the mud of many tides had dried, she had the air of something aquatic, a demon from the depths, perhaps. Whatever happens, I must never leave her behind, Martha prayed.
Both the girls were small and looked exceptionally so as they crossed the Bridge with their handcart. They wore stout Canadian anoraks, sent them by their Aunt Louise.
Below the old church at Battersea the retreating flood had left exposed a wide shelf of mud and gravel. At intervals the dark driftwood lay piled. Near the draw dock some longshoremen had heaped it up and set light to it, to clear the area. Now the thick blue smoke gave out a villainous smell, the gross spirit of salt and fire. Tilda loved that smell, and stretched her nostrils wide.
Beyond the dock, an old wrecked barge lay upside down. It was shocking, even terrifying, to see her dark flat shining bottom, chine uppermost. A derelict ship turns over on her keel and lies gracefully at rest, but there is only one way up for a Thames barge if she is to maintain her dignity.
This wreck was the Small Gains , which had gone down more than twenty-five years before, when hundreds of barges were still working under sail. Held fast in the mud with her cargo of bricks, she had failed to come up with the rising tide and the water had turned her over. The old bricks were still scattered over the foreshore. After a storm they were washed back in dozens, but most of them were broken or half ground to powder. Along with the main cargo, however, Small Gains had shipped a quantity of tiles. At a certain moment in the afternoon the sun, striking across the water from behind the gas works, sent almost level rays over the glistening Reach. Then it was possible for the expert to pick out a glazed tile, though only if it had sunk at the correct angle to the river bed.
‘Do you think Ma’s mind is weakening?’ Tilda asked.
‘I thought we weren’t going to discuss our affairs today.’ Martha relented and added – ‘Well, Ma is much too dependent on Maurice, or on anyone sympathetic. She ought to avoid these people.’
The two girls sat on the wall of Old Battersea churchyard to eat their sandwiches. These contained a substance called Spread, and, indeed, that was all you could do with it.
‘Mattie, who would you choose, if you were compelled at gunpoint to marry tomorrow?’
‘You mean, someone off the boats?’
‘We don’t know anybody else.’
Seagulls, able to detect the appearance of a piece of bread at a hundred yards away, advanced slowly towards them over the shelving ground.
‘I thought perhaps you meant Cliff.’
‘Not
Like the rest of London’s river children, they knew that the mud was a source of wealth, but were too shrewd to go into competition with the locals from Partisan Street for coins, medals and lugworms. The lugworms, in any case, Willis had told them, were better on Limehouse Reach. Round about Grace herself, the great river deposited little but mounds of plastic containers.
Every expedition meant crossing the Bridge, because the current on Battersea Reach, between the two bridges, sets towards the Surrey side. The responsibility for these outings, which might or might not be successful, had worn between Martha’s eyebrows a faint frown, not quite vertical, which exactly resembled Richard’s.
‘We’ll go bricking to-day,’ she said. ‘How’s the tide?’
‘High water Gravesend 3 a.m., London Bridge 4, Battersea Bridge 4.30,’ Tilda chanted rapidly. ‘Spring tide, seven and a half hour’s ebb, low tide at 12.’
Martha surveyed her sister doubtfully. With so much specialised knowledge, which would qualify her for nothing much except a pilot’s certificate, with her wellingtons over which the mud of many tides had dried, she had the air of something aquatic, a demon from the depths, perhaps. Whatever happens, I must never leave her behind, Martha prayed.
Both the girls were small and looked exceptionally so as they crossed the Bridge with their handcart. They wore stout Canadian anoraks, sent them by their Aunt Louise.
Below the old church at Battersea the retreating flood had left exposed a wide shelf of mud and gravel. At intervals the dark driftwood lay piled. Near the draw dock some longshoremen had heaped it up and set light to it, to clear the area. Now the thick blue smoke gave out a villainous smell, the gross spirit of salt and fire. Tilda loved that smell, and stretched her nostrils wide.
Beyond the dock, an old wrecked barge lay upside down. It was shocking, even terrifying, to see her dark flat shining bottom, chine uppermost. A derelict ship turns over on her keel and lies gracefully at rest, but there is only one way up for a Thames barge if she is to maintain her dignity.
This wreck was the Small Gains , which had gone down more than twenty-five years before, when hundreds of barges were still working under sail. Held fast in the mud with her cargo of bricks, she had failed to come up with the rising tide and the water had turned her over. The old bricks were still scattered over the foreshore. After a storm they were washed back in dozens, but most of them were broken or half ground to powder. Along with the main cargo, however, Small Gains had shipped a quantity of tiles. At a certain moment in the afternoon the sun, striking across the water from behind the gas works, sent almost level rays over the glistening Reach. Then it was possible for the expert to pick out a glazed tile, though only if it had sunk at the correct angle to the river bed.
‘Do you think Ma’s mind is weakening?’ Tilda asked.
‘I thought we weren’t going to discuss our affairs today.’ Martha relented and added – ‘Well, Ma is much too dependent on Maurice, or on anyone sympathetic. She ought to avoid these people.’
The two girls sat on the wall of Old Battersea churchyard to eat their sandwiches. These contained a substance called Spread, and, indeed, that was all you could do with it.
‘Mattie, who would you choose, if you were compelled at gunpoint to marry tomorrow?’
‘You mean, someone off the boats?’
‘We don’t know anybody else.’
Seagulls, able to detect the appearance of a piece of bread at a hundred yards away, advanced slowly towards them over the shelving ground.
‘I thought perhaps you meant Cliff.’
‘Not
Similar Books
