Maggie Gee - The Ice People

And then I started to smile myself.

Then Luke came staggering through into the cockpit, and put one arm out to help guide the tiller. His hand touched mine, hesitated, stayed. Shoulder to shoulder, we faced the waves, bracing ourselves for the next rollercoaster. His shoulder was not a lot lower than mine.

I know I felt better with him there.

Somewhere over our heads, to our left, then our right, then sweeping above us in a sickening arc as I tried to peer out and see what was happening, the moon had come up, and was streaking the waves with wild cracked filaments of silver. We slapped the water, we spun like a top, we were skimmed like a stone, we were flung and pounded, and I let Luke hold the tiller with me, I felt the surprising strength in his arms, and I tried to explain, as the storm roared on, how the tiller was connected to the rudder, how the rudder deflected the power of the water, how important it was to keep the head of the boat pointing into the oncoming walls of water — but I’d left it too late, he could not hear, the black O of his mouth saying ‘What? What?’

I gave him more chocolate. My child, my son. I crammed black chocolate into his dark craw.

For three or four hours, or what might have been days, we battered on through the bruising cold. My lips were splitting with salt and tiredness, my hands were raw and stiff from clutching the tiller, my arms were almost wrenched out of their sockets, my neck ached horribly from peering forward. I heard my bones start to crack like chalk, breaking, crumbling like cuttlefish corpses …

I must have fallen asleep at the tiller. Luke was suddenly tugging at one of my arms, then beating my side like a faithful horse, and I registered that he trusted me before I heard what he was yelling, ‘The sun’s coming up. Dad, it’s the sun!’

Luke must have taken the helm for me. I pulled myself up. My legs complained, my arms were shaking, I was soft as a baby –

Now I am hard and dry as leather. Now I no longer yield to pain.

But the boy was right. As I heaved myself up above the level of the window of the cockpit, I saw a faint glimmer over to our left.

‘And I counted ten seconds between the last two waves,’ he said, as we began to plummet again. Sure enough, we didn’t dive so far, and halfasecond or two later we were on our way up, and I hugged him, he hugged me, we rose into the air, we hung there, together, a boy and his father, and in the last moment before dipping again I could see the pink and yellow line of sky above the water and a thin edge of white coming slowly closer, ‘It’s France. It is. It’s France. We made it.’

‘France!’ he yelled over the wind, ecstatic, jumping up and down, hugging himself, ‘I’ll go and tell Briony! Dad, you did it!’ And he briefly, fiercely headbutted me, dug his forehead excitedly into my side.

‘We did it together, Luke,’ I said. He looked up and grinned, a big boyish grin that I couldn’t remember him having before, and staggered away to wake Briony.

He was back in a second, pulling at my jacket. ‘She’s not dead, Dad, is she?’ he yelled at the wind.

‘I’ll go and see, but you’ll have to take the helm,’ I said. For a moment, both of us hesitated. The swell had quietened, though the sea was still lively, shaking and worrying us like a dog, but he was thirteen, and if he felt he could do it — ‘I can do it, Dad,’ he said, and I went.

The cabin was sloshing with icy water. The morning sun had just cleared the window, and glittered in a thousand pieces through the glass, on the frill of Dora’s feathers, a seraphic azure, on her great soaked feet like plates of black meat, and Briony was slumped against her –

Her matted blonde hair, her wan white face, the greyblue shadows under her eyes, the bloodless, beautiful curve of her mouth. I knew nothing about her, but she had come with us, had risked her life on the sea with us. She had cared for Luke. She was — what was I thinking?

‘Briony,’ I said. ‘Wake up. We’ve made it.’

Her xylon jacket was dark with vomit. One of her gloves had fallen off, or she’d pulled it off to look at her watch. I looked at her watch — it was fivetosix — and one eye opened, puzzled, startled, wide and frightened, pale blue as the sky. ‘Where am I?’ she said.

‘Nearly in France.’

She put up her hand to touch my face. I saw her do it, but I couldn’t feel it; my face was like a block of ice. We had never touched since the day of the kidnap when I’d mauled her around like an enemy. I watched the slow movement of her white hand. It was amazing, wonderful. ‘Thankgod,’ she said. ‘I thought we would die.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, ‘that you were frightened.’

‘Is Luke all right?’

‘He’s steering the boat.’

She smiled. The blood came back to her face.

‘He’ll like that,’ she said. She tried to sit up, but the boat lurched and she collapsed again. I took her hand and pulled her up.

‘Hadn’t we better switch Dora off?’ she asked. ‘She’s been on all night, and we can’t refuel her.’

I bent to do it, but touched the wrong panel, and got ‘Voice’ instead, which we often turned off, because her giggles didn’t help when our nerves were bad. ‘I have a water malfunction,’ she announced, in her little voice, which sounded slightly smug, slightly too sure of herself, perhaps. ‘I have a water malfunction.’

‘You’re wet,’ I told her, and switched her off.

‘There’s France,’ I told Briony, pointing to the band of whitening sand a mile or so away. ‘I’d better go and help Luke bring her in.’

‘Do you think ships are female?’ she said, eyes sharpening.

‘No … Yes. What does it matter?’ I gave up explaining, justifying. ‘Luke wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. I’m — very grateful,’ I said, quite humbly.

I felt that I loved her, deeply, adoringly, I wanted to take her in my arms, I wanted to shout and dance and drink, I wanted to kneel down and worship the morning –

Instead I went back and took the tiller from my son, and he sang as he guided me through the shining rocks to the deserted beach where we ran aground.

It seemed to me, as we rested on the sand — halfprotected by the lip of an enormous dune, its spiky green crest sticking over us, and under its fringe, the brilliant sea, still streaked across with racing whitecaps, but blue as air underneath the foam, a holiday sea that meant no harm — it seemed to me that we were coming home, me and my son and this kind tired woman who dozed between us in our nest of blankets, and Luke chased a sandfly from her hair.

That morning was so bright, so unforgettable. I thought, A new life, away from Sarah. Hope. Joy. Another child …? Because Briony was young, and I wasn’t old, and perhaps it was Sarah, after all, who had the problem. And since Briony was sleeping, and could express nothing beyond what the curve of a cheek seemed to say, I could dream whatever I wanted to, I could feel like a god or a happy hero relaxing after an epic battle …

Of course, she woke up, and Luke was hungry, and all of us were cold, and we had to get moving. Reality struck me like a wet sandbag, every joint and muscle of my body ached, and we had no car until I’d bought or stolen one –

But I had eight million ecus in my pack, I had my son, I had Briony, and a little song of triumph rang out in my brain. I had escaped, I had stolen the future, I’d left Sarah behind with those bitter old women, and now we were off to the Pyrenees, through thousands of kilometres of France, then over the mountains into Spain, across the great plains and down to the sea — the narrow strait to Africa.

Yes. That morning was one of my life’s best moments, a riff of pure pleasure I treasure even now, when everything’s so much colder and darker.