Harry’s expression shifted through surprise to incredulity. ‘You’re kidding, right? I mean, this is just gossip?’
‘Like I said, it’s Jane’s favourite rural legend,’ Dan said, lighting a cigarette.
Jane shook her head, her long curls catching the light. ‘It’s not just gossip. John Barrow’s book raises the question as far back as 1831.’
‘As conspiracy theories go, you have to admit it’s a goodie,’ Dan said. ‘Mr Christian staged a massacre and sailed off into the sunset. Oh no, wait a minute. How did he get away, Jane? They burned the ship, didn’t they?’
Jane leaned on the bar. ‘They did. But the Bounty had two ship’s jolly boats on board and they’ve never been satisfactorily accounted for. Also, there’s the matter of the missing log.’ She grinned. ‘That’s where you’re supposed to say, “What missing log?”’
Dan inclined his head and held up his hands in mock astonishment. ‘What missing log?’
‘Fletcher Christian was an officer of the watch. He was accustomed to keeping a log. It would have been second nature to him.’
‘Makes sense,’ Harry said.
‘It would be extraordinary if there was no record kept of how they settled Pitcairn. There was no shortage of paper and pens. They were still using them years later in the school they set up for their kids. But the only documentary account ever seen was written by one of the other mutineers, Edward Young. And it doesn’t start until after the massacre, which implies someone else was keeping notes until that point. Who else but Fletcher? If he’d died, it stands to reason that the journal would have survived him. But if he took to the sea…’ Jane’s voice trailed off.
‘He’d have taken it with him, right?’ Harry concluded. She could see he was interested too, in spite of his perpetual assumption of cool. ‘OK, I’ll grant you that that’s suggestive, if nothing else. But, as you say yourself, it’s all circumstantial.’
‘Not quite all of it. Let me tell you about Peter Heywood. He was one of the mutineers who came back. But unlike most of the others who were court-martialled, his family had the cash and connections to secure their blue-eyed boy a pardon. Instead of being hanged, he went on to have a glittering naval career. But the really interesting thing about Peter Heywood is that he was a distant cousin of Fletcher Christian. He grew up on the Isle of Man, where Fletcher spent a fair bit of his own youth. So, as well as sailing with him, Heywood was personally connected to Fletcher. He knew him well,’ Jane said. ‘And in 1809 or thereabouts, Peter Heywood saw Fletcher Christian in Plymouth.’
Harry frowned. ‘But Plymouth was a naval base, wasn’t it? Surely he’d have had to have been insane to walk around Plymouth in broad daylight? Here’s the most notorious mutineer in the history of the British navy. I mean, even somebody like me with no interest in history has heard of him. And according to you, here’s a man who went to extraordinary lengths to stay out of harm’s way after the mutiny, a man who’d be a cert for the hangman’s rope if he’d ever been caught. And yet here he is taking an afternoon stroll in a city that’s awash with naval officers and ratings. And who does he bump into but his old mucker Peter Heywood.’ Harry spread his hands in the manner of a man making an unanswerable case. ‘And even supposing it did happen, if Heywood and Christian were as close as you say, why would he admit to having seen Christian? It makes no sense.’
‘He didn’t admit it, Harry. Not publicly anyway. It never came out until after his death. And I can speculate,’ Jane said, her voice mild. ‘What if he’d arranged to meet Heywood then, at the last minute, Heywood couldn’t disentangle himself from one of his colleagues? And when Fletcher saw Heywood wasn’t alone, he took to his heels.’
Harry shook his head. ‘But why would Fletcher Christian leave Pitcairn in the first place? He was safe there, surely? Why throw that away?’
‘I’m not so sure that he felt safe,’ Jane said. ‘It’s clear there were deep divisions between the mutineers themselves as well as the problems with the native men. There’s also some evidence that the other mutineers resented his authority as the only officer left among them. And he was a decent man, remember? Maybe he wanted to make his peace, like the Ancient Mariner. Maybe he wanted to explain why he’d been driven to mutiny in the first place,’ Jane argued. ‘Only, when he got back, he discovered that Bligh had not only survived, he’d become a hero thanks to his amazing navigation of the Pacific. Not to mention the fact that he’d had plenty of time to get his version of the mutiny out there. Whatever Fletcher’s motives were for inciting the crew against Bligh, it was too late for him to make his case.’
‘But what case could he have made?’ Harry asked. ‘Mutiny’s mutiny, isn’t it?’
‘There was one defence to mutiny that Christian could have relied on,’ Dan said.
Harry’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Suddenly you’re the expert on naval law?’
‘No, but I do know something about the history of gay oppression, sweetheart,’ Dan said. ‘What if Christian alleged sodomy against Bligh? That was a hanging offence back then, wasn’t it? If he could demonstrate that Bligh had forced him to have sex against his will, wouldn’t that have mitigated the mutiny?’ He paused, his brows furrowed, teeth gnawing his lower lip. ‘Of course, he would have needed a third-party witness to make it stand up. Back then, because it was such an easy allegation to make and so hard to substantiate, the courts martial insisted on more than one man’s word against another. And Christian must have known that.’
‘Maybe there was a witness,’ Jane said slowly. ‘And maybe part of the reason Fletcher led the mutiny was to protect the witness…’ her voice trailed off and she stared dreamily across the empty bar.
‘What do you mean?’ Harry was still intrigued.
Jane held up a finger, giving herself a pause to consider her position. ‘Let’s go back to Peter Heywood,’ she said, her eyes focused inward as she searched through the knowledge she’d amassed over years of fascination. ‘Fletcher had sailed previously with Bligh and it’s on record that he was the captain’s favourite. Same story during the Bounty’s voyage as far as Tahiti. Then Fletcher spends six months ashore, takes himself a native concubine…’
‘Concubine, I love that word,’ Dan said, rolling it on his tongue.
‘Anyway,’ Jane said forcefully, ‘when the ship leaves Tahiti, Fletcher doesn’t want to go back to being Bligh’s…’
‘Catamite. That’s the word you’re looking for. Another lovely one,’ Dan interrupted.
‘Whatever. And Bligh starts treating him like shit. And Fletcher’s decision has also put him on the horns of a dilemma. He feels he owes a duty of care to young Peter Heywood, his kinsman. Because it was also well documented that Heywood was Bligh’s second-favourite after Fletcher. So Fletcher wants to protect Heywood, but not at the expense of submitting again to Bligh.’
‘And so he leads a mutiny, knowing he faces certain death if he’s ever caught? All to protect the honour of Peter Heywood?’ Harry sounded dubious.
‘Maybe he’s also protecting himself,’ Dan said. ‘If Bligh had made a move on Heywood too, then he was Christian’s witness. Then Christian could argue that mutiny was the only way to stop a sexual predator exploiting his crew far from their home port. Wouldn’t that work?’
‘It might, I suppose,’ Harry said grudgingly. ‘Man, you’ve changed your tune. You were the one calling this Jane’s fantasy. Now you’re defending her ideas and I’m the one not seeing evidence of anything except Jane’s imagination.’
Jane got to her feet and headed behind the bar to finish clearing up. ‘That’s my womanly powers of persuasion, Harry. And besides, you’re wrong. There is something a little more concrete. The mutineers who ended up being court-martialled were the ones who asked Christian to take them back to Tahiti, Peter Heywood among them. Those guys never made it as far as Pitcairn. When the two groups were parting company, Fletcher took Heywood to one side. And when Fletcher said his private farewell to Heywood, he asked him to pass some information to the Christian family back home. But Heywood never disclosed what Fletcher had said. Why would he keep shtum, unless the message was something that would have been viewed as shameful, presumably to himself as well as to Fletcher? That something might have been Fletcher’s underlying reason for the mutiny–Bligh’s sexual abuse of Christian and Heywood.’
Harry laughed out loud. ‘Jane, you should be writing fiction, not criticism. Is this what passes for intellectual rigour in the English Department?’ He joined her behind the bar, taking glasses from the dishwasher and replacing them on the shelves.
Jane leaned on the counter and grinned. ‘Maybe I should turn to fiction. And if I did, I’d start with William Wordsworth’s lost epic’
‘Wordsworth’s lost epic?’ Harry said, sounding bemused.
‘She’s kept the best till last, Harry,’ Dan said. ‘This is the “woo-woo” moment. You’re going to love this one.’
Jane carried on regardless. ‘“Innocence and Corruption; the True History of the Mutiny upon the ship the Bounty in the South Seas.” Or something similarly Wordsworthian.’
‘Huh?’ Harry said.
‘They were at school together, Harry. William Wordsworth, the Lakeland Laureate and head honcho of the Romantic poets, and Fletcher Christian, Bounty mutineer, were contemporaries at Hawkshead School. Fletcher’s brother Edward was their teacher. He went on to become Professor of Law at the same Cambridge college where Wordsworth took his degree. And he represented the Wordsworth family in an important lawsuit. So who else would Fletcher choose to tell his version of events to but his old schoolfriend? The friend of his family who went on to become a famous man of letters. And even if he knew he could never publish it because of the potentially dire consequences, Wordsworth couldn’t have ignored a story as big as that, could he?’
Although I offered him no response, he continued to approach me. The man seemed entirely at ease as he made himself at home on the bench that sits nearby my work table. He stretched his legs before him, crossing them at the ankles. ‘Do you not know me yet, William?’ he said, a note of amusement in his tone. As he spoke, he pushed his hat to the back of his head, allowing me to see his face fully for the first time. Many years had passed since I had last cast my gaze upon his countenance, but I knew him at once. The vicissitudes of time & experience had left their marks upon him, but they were not sufficient to blunt his essential characteristics. My suspicion turned to certainty & my heart leapt in my breast.
4
Tenille knew all about choices. She understood that although teachers loved to lay out their holier-than-thou shit about creating options for their pupils, deep down they believed that people like her didn’t have choices. Not really. Not like the teachers and their own middle-class brats. In their hearts, they thought kids like Tenille were stuck without hope in the life they already had. So whatever their mouths might say, the way they acted shouted something different. The way they acted said, ‘You’re going to do drugs, go shoplifting, get pregnant in your teens and have a shit life on a scummy council estate till you die a premature death from smoking or drinking or drugs or deprivation. So why am I bothering trying to teach you anything?’
But they were wrong. She did have choices, even though they weren’t as obvious or as wide-ranging as most thirteen-year-olds’. But Tenille was damn sure she had more going for her than any of the rest of the no-hopers from the Marshpool Farm Estate. That was why she didn’t hang out with the other truants. She wasn’t interested in dodging the Attendance Officers or the security guards in the shopping malls and the amusement arcades. Joining the gangs shoplifting tatty clothes and cheap make-up held no charms for her. Not that she was above nicking stuff. Just not the crap that interested them. She couldn’t imagine talking Aleesha Graham and her crew into raiding Waterstone’s for books of poetry. Apart from anything else, you put them in a bookshop and they’d stick out like a three-piece suit in the mosh pit at a hip-hop gig. Just the thought of it made her roll her eyes back in her head and curl her lips in a sneer. Nor did she have any desire to spend her days holed up in some shithole of a flat watching nicked DVDs with a bunch of losers who just wanted to get out of their heads on weed or extra-strong cider and alcopops.
It hadn’t been so bad when Sharon had been unattached and working down the café. With her aunt safely out the door by ten, Tenille would sneak back indoors, curl up under her lumpy duvet and read until school kicked out and she could colonise one of the computers in the library to get online and hang out in chat rooms. There she could find other weirdoes who read poetry and wanted to talk about it. If she got desperate for the sound of another human voice, she would sneak downstairs and check out Jane Gresham’s flat. If Jane was home, she’d usually let Tenille in to raid her bookshelves, and if she wasn’t too busy, they’d sometimes sit drinking coffee and talking. Except when Jane got one on her and decided to deliver her lecture about how Tenille shouldn’t be dogging it. Like anybody in that dumping ground called Marshpool Comprehensive was ever going to teach her anything that would make her life one single step easier.
It was Jane who had told her about the chat rooms, even letting Tenille use her computer occasionally when Jane was reading and not needing the machine herself. Now they’d become Tenille’s lifeline, providing her with a retreat where she could be the person she knew she was deep inside. By most people’s standards, it wasn’t much. But it was enough to allow a narrow chink of optimism into Tenille’s life.
But all that had gone to shit a few weeks before. It had started when Sharon had left the café to take a job in the works canteen of a local plastics factory. Instead of regular days, she was on shifts, so two weeks in three, Tenille lost a substantial chunk of her daytime sanctuary. That had been bad enough, though Tenille was resourceful and soon found ways around the problem. But then Sharon had found herself a new boyfriend.
In the seven years she’d been in the nominal care of her aunt, Tenille had grown accustomed to the steady stream of unsteady men who pitched up at the flat for indeterminate lengths of time. She’d learned early to stay out of the way when they were around. Sharon didn’t want her dead junkie sister’s bastard putting them off, and she’d made it clear that Tenille should be neither seen nor heard when she was entertaining. So Tenille shut herself in her room for hours on end, tuning out the animal noises that seeped through the walls and under the door, sneaking out when the coast was clear to raid the fridge and kitchen cupboards for whatever she could find to kill the hunger that gripped her. Sometimes she felt like the invisible child, a phantom who slipped into the cracks and corners nobody else wanted to occupy. It wasn’t a notion she enjoyed, but recently she’d begun to yearn for that invisibility.
Of course, it had occurred to her before the arrival of Geno Marley in her life that there were distinct advantages to slipping under other people’s radar. It made truanting and shoplifting so much easier. But as far as Sharon’s boyfriends were concerned, she’d believed the only benefit she gained from remaining unnoticed was to avoid Sharon’s wrath if she inadvertently got in the way of her aunt’s love life. Although she knew in theory about men who preyed on kids like her, she’d never experienced it first hand. The kind of men who had been attracted to the overripe charms of her aunt had thus far shown no inclinations in her direction. After all, there was nothing childish about Sharon, a tough mixed-race woman who exuded a mature and knowing sexuality that promised the delights of experience rather than the temptations of innocence. She wasn’t one of those women who fought a doomed rearguard action against time; Sharon accepted she was past the first flush of youth and understood that mutton can be a far tastier meat than lamb. And so her men tended to be those who wanted a woman who had a firm grasp of the pleasure principle.
If she’d confined her neediness to the sexual dimension, Sharon’s relationships would likely have lasted longer than they did. But so far she’d failed to find a man who could put up with the constant nagging demands of her insecurities for more than a few months. Tenille was accustomed to bearing the unreasonable blame for the departure of yet another browbeaten lover and, every time it happened, it reinforced her desire to stay out of the way next time.
She hadn’t been fast enough to avoid Geno Marley, mostly because she hadn’t been expecting him. Usually, she was already safely closeted in her room when a new man tumbled into Sharon’s bed for the first time. But Tenille hadn’t factored shift work into her calculations. Sharon had been due to finish her shift that day at two, so Tenille had cleared out in good time. She’d been unlucky at the library that afternoon; a quartet of wrinklies had commandeered the computers and a greasy-haired grandson was teaching them the basics of websurfing. Like they were going to be downloading MP3s and hanging out in chat rooms any time soon, Tenille thought scornfully. She hung around for a while, but it was clear that grey power wasn’t about to concede in the foreseeable future.
She’d been surprised to return to an empty flat. Sharon should have been home two hours ago. Tenille assumed her aunt had gone shopping. Hell, she hoped so, because there was fuck all to eat or drink in the place. She’d turned on the TV and slumped on the sofa, too pissed off and hungry to read. The sound of the front door opening barely registered, but the sound of muffled giggling and the deep rumble of a man’s voice set her senses on alert. She scrambled to her feet, ready for flight, but there was nowhere to run to.
The living-room door opened on Sharon weaving in an unsteady shimmy, a man’s arms locked around her waist, the silly smile of drink plastered on her face, her café-au-lait skin flushed scarlet. Seeing Tenille, a scowl wiped the cheerfulness from her face. ‘Whatchu doing here?’ she demanded.
‘I live here,’ Tenille muttered.
A face appeared over Sharon’s shoulder, the expression a mix of curiosity and impatience. ‘Who’s this?’ he said, a slur in his voice and the seeds of lechery in his smile.
‘My niece. I told you, remember?’ Sharon was pissed off, there was no mistaking it.
The man dropped his hands from Sharon’s waist and sidestepped her so he could fully enter the room. Tenille recognised an expression she’d seen directed at others but not so far at herself, probably because the anonymous clothes she chose for the street hid rather than flattered her recently developed figure. But here in the privacy of her own home, she was stripped down to T-shirt and hip-hugging jeans. And this man was drinking it in as deep as Sharon had obviously drunk in some afternoon shebeen. Tenille didn’t like it one little bit.
‘So, little niece, you got a name?’ He stepped closer, one hand carelessly draped on Sharon’s hip.
‘Tenille,’ she muttered reluctantly.
‘Pretty name for a pretty girl.’
‘What’s yours?’ Tenille demanded abruptly.
He grinned, revealing a gold canine. ‘I’m Geno,’ he said. ‘Like Geno Washington.’
Tenille wondered if she was supposed to be impressed by a name she’d never heard before. She raised her eyebrows in a faint gesture of contempt. ‘Who he, man?’
He faked astonishment. ‘You never heard of Geno? Girl, you know nothing. Geno was only the greatest soul singer this godforsaken country ever produced.’
Sharon, impatient at so much attention directed away from her, butted in. ‘Donchu got some shit of your own to be getting on with?’ she said petulantly.
Grateful for the chance to escape, Tenille edged nearer the door. But Geno wasn’t for moving. Tenille had to go round him, Sharon moving to one side and kissing her teeth in irritation. Then she was free, out in the hall and suddenly aware of the heightened rhythm of her breathing.
That had just been the start of it. Discomfort and unease attended Tenille whenever Geno was around and she couldn’t make a quick getaway. Generally she managed to keep out of his way, but that was getting harder and harder as the weeks passed and it became clear he wasn’t about to abandon Sharon any time soon. After three weeks, he had virtually moved in, always around when Sharon was there and sometimes hanging out even when she was at work. Tenille’s life came to be lived more and more outside the flat; at Jane’s when she could manage it, or on the windswept galleries and dank stairwells of the estate when she couldn’t. She pretended even to herself that her actions were the result of choice; it was better than naming the fear she didn’t want to acknowledge.
But she couldn’t kid herself for ever. Sharon had to do nights sooner or later, and when that week rolled around, Tenille felt no surprise when her aunt announced that Geno would be sleeping over to keep an eye on her. No surprise, just a hot spurt of fear in her stomach. ‘I never needed no minder when you did nights before,’ Tenille had protested.
‘You think it felt right, me leaving you on your own?’ Sharon challenged.
‘I’m not a baby, I don’t need no babysitter.’
‘You still not legal alone, girl. It make me feel happier knowing there’s somebody here with you.’ Sharon gathered her make-up, shovelling it into the fake Louis Vuitton bag Geno had presented her with. He’d preened like a peacock while Tenille had looked on with contempt, knowing he’d picked it up on some market stall for buttons.
‘It never bothered you before. You been leaving me shut up in here since I was eight year old.’
‘And I was wrong. Geno made me see that. He tol’ me about bad things happening lately to girls round here.’
Tenille shivered. ‘Nothin’ goan happen to me. I don’t need Geno to protect me. I don’t like Geno,’ she tried desperately, feeling somehow ashamed to articulate what really bothered her about him.
‘He’s a good man,’ Sharon said. ‘So donchu piss him off, you hear?’ There was an air of finality in her voice that Tenille knew better than to argue with. She swept her coat off the chair and made for the door. ‘He’ll be round later. Donchu mess with his head. You hear me, girl?’ she added, whirling round with a look of dark suspicious anger on her handsome face.
Tenille scowled. ‘I hear you,’ she mumbled. The door had scarcely closed behind her aunt before she was on her feet, pulling on her own coat, throwing her MP3 player and a couple of books into her backpack and heading out into the early evening gloom. She made straight for Jane’s flat, but the lights were out and her knock met with no response. Tenille thrust her hand in her pocket and fingered the uneven contours of the key. She’d ‘borrowed’ the spare from the kitchen drawer months before, had it copied and returned it before Jane even noticed its absence. But she was cautious about its use. It would only be an insurance policy for as long as Jane didn’t know she had it. When that useless wanker Jake had still been on the scene, she’d never dared to sneak in, unsure of his comings and goings. She’d only chanced it a couple of times since, both occasions when she’d seen Jane off on the bus and known for sure she’d be at the Viking for the next four hours. Tonight, she had no idea where Jane was or when she’d return. It was too risky.
With a sigh, Tenille turned away and trudged back to the stinking stairwell. A scatter of rain caught her in the face as she turned off the gallery and she swore under her breath. For once, she wished she didn’t despise everyone in her peer group. Tonight, the idea of watching some stupid DVD with Aleesha Graham and her crew almost made her wistful. Tenille turned out her pockets. Enough for a couple of regular Cokes. If she carried on past the local Burger King to the one a mile or so away, the chances were there would be nobody she knew inside. With luck, it would be quiet enough for them to let her skulk in a corner for a few hours, nose in a book.
