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He ignored her and one of his men tried to pull Agnesa from the line. Mama held on to one of her hands and I held the other, pulling her back.
‘We all go,’ said Mama.
A man slapped her across the face. I reacted without thinking, kicked him in the shins. He hopped on one leg and took a swing at me, but I ducked and kicked him again, which made the other men laugh.
Mama pushed Agnesa behind her. The man pointed a gun at her head. Mama didn’t flinch. I saw the black hole at the end of the barrel and I wanted to put my finger inside to make the gun explode like it did in those cartoons when Elmer Fudd was hunting Bugs Bunny.
The man lowered the gun and grunted an order. We were pulled from the line, Mama, Agnesa and me. Others were chosen, mainly young men, a few women, and another family with two children, a girl Agnesa’s age and a younger boy. The rest of the migrants were told that another boat would come for them. Some complained and jostled, but the gun kept them quiet.
The man in charge looked at our three suitcases. ‘Too much.’
‘This is all we have,’ said Mama.
He picked up two of the cases, undid the latches and tipped them upside down, spilling our belongings onto the filthy floor.
‘One bag,’ he said. ‘Repack.’
Choices had to be made. We each took a warm coat, underwear, socks and a pair of good shoes. Much was left behind. It was almost dawn when they took us to a small boat with an outboard motor, which ferried us six at a time to a fishing trawler moored in the harbour amid a forest of masts with blinking lights and rattling cables.
The crew threw a ladder over the side. They wore black masks with holes for their eyes. We climbed up and then down again into the hold, which stank of fish and diesel fumes. Mama complained there were too many of us. She was ignored.
The engines started and the boat trembled and the hatches were locked down. In the darkness, I could hear people murmuring in languages that I couldn’t understand. Praying. We all were, even Mama, who didn’t believe in God. I was sitting between her legs, with her arms around my waist. Agnesa was next to her. Her job was to guard the suitcase, which had the last of our money.
Years later, at Langford Hall, I remember being told a Bible story about a man called Jonah who was saved from drowning by being swallowed by a big fish. It wasn’t a whale, like most people think. Jonah spent three days and three nights in the belly of the fish. He prayed to God and the fish vomited him out.
When I heard that story, I thought about being back in the hull of that trawler, with its metal ribs and its smell of fish and sweat and fuel and faeces, with an engine that throbbed like the heart of a whale.
3
Cyrus
There is a waiting stillness about the morning, as the sun emerges from the horizon, lighting up a bank of clouds that glow red like a floating fire above the dark sea. My running shoes make a soughing sound on the pavement, and the ground moves towards me and beneath me and behind me.
Evie was still asleep when I left the guest house. She probably won’t wake until I’m back, but I closed the adjoining door and left her a note saying I wouldn’t be long. That was an hour ago. Since then, I have explored St Claire, running along empty streets, past darkened terraces, shops, factories and blocks of flats. Many are built from the same red granite and give the impression that the town sprouted directly from the rocky cliffs, taking root like the stunted trees, which lean away from the prevailing winds.
The lowest part of the town is on the shoreline where the shingle beach is blanketed by seaweed. Further east, protected by a breakwater and twin lighthouses, is the harbour, surrounded by factories and warehouses. Pausing at the end of the southern breakwater, I watch a fishing trawler return to port, towing seagulls like white kites.
Retracing my steps, uphill this time, I pass a man in a tweed jacket and peaked cap, walking his Jack Russell. I stop on the corner, waiting for him.
‘You picked a tough climb,’ he says, sounding more English than Scottish.
‘More fool me.’
The dog sniffs at my shoes.
‘It’s a lovely morning,’ I say. ‘Are you a local?’
‘No, I’m visiting my grandchildren.’ He points along the lane. ‘My son married a Scottish lass. A Jock. Are we allowed to call them that? I’m not sure these days.’
‘Where is home?’
‘Cornwall. My wife died last year. This is my first trip without her.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘It is what it is.’
He crouches to scratch the dog behind her ears.
