We Float Upon a Painted Sea (10 page)

“It’s for your own protection – the streets are not safe out there.”

“Open your eyes, Faerrleah. You’re beginning to sound like my father and, no offence, but he’s
Mr Responsible
. I wouldn’t listen to him, so why should I listen to you?” Bull shook his head. He slumped back down on the sofa and pulled one of Saffron’s boho cushions towards his stomach. He squeezed it and said,

“Fine, have it your way, but you said yourself that democracy always reverts to a Plutocracy. So why do you deplore its demise?” Saffron's laugh was a cynical one. She said,

“I remember you thinking Plutocracy was a canine government led by a Disney cartoon character.” “I was being facetious.”

“Were you really?” Bull looked at his feet. Saffron continued, “Look Faerrleah, people in this country fought for centuries to eradicate dictators and tyrants...” Bull interrupted saying,

“Now you’re beginning to sound like
my
dad.”

“We may still have a vote and free speech, but this is not democracy, not like we should have, not where ordinary people have their say and are listened to outside an election campaign. The government might change its appearance every five years, but the face behind the mask remains the same. A network of privileged elite still make the rules, and the bourgeoisie order is still in place. The defrauding bankers still walk the street, still enjoying their protected status and propped up by public taxes, which used to be spent on the people, while those who protest against injustices like this and the rape of our planet are put behind bars. I wish you would open your eyes.”

Saffron waited a moment to see how he would respond. Finally, she knelt beside him and said, “What’s this all about anyway, something has really gotten into you, and it’s not because I don’t wear a Shackle.” Bull lent forward, brushed the hair from her ear and sniffed. He said,

“I think you forgot your notebook with your
ten point plan
in your rush to fly off and meet Maurice. It’s lying over on the table.”

“I really wish you wouldn't do that sniffing thing. Why do you do that? Why do you have to sniff everyone? I would like to know.” Bull stood up, barging into the coffee table and knocking the wine bottle and glass to the floor as he left the room. Saffron shouted,

“You didn’t tell me what you thought of the boat? I spent a whole day painting it. And the Solar panels got fitted yesterday.” Bull pretended he couldn’t hear her as he stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.

Saffron made herself a cup of peppermint tea and sat staring out of the galley window biting her fingernails. It was an annoying childhood habit she had struggled to grow out of. She considered Bull's own habit of sniffing people; it initially made her laugh but now it irritated her. She was confused and considered how her relationship with Bull was evolving, and if her
ten point plan to wellbeing and happiness
honestly reflected her own life. She was surprised at how little of her own advice she was taking. She looked back into the living room and studied the empty bottle, tipped over on the floor. A residual trickle of red wine streamed towards her Myakka hand woven rug. She rushed to intercept the convergence. It was too late.

Later, Bull walked to the galley. He was carrying a fresh shirt and was smoking a brand cigarette. He said,

“What’s so special about him anyway?”

“Oh, he’s just got an amazing life force and natural balance, or maybe it’s just the way he takes off his sunglasses, lights his pipe and says
oui
. I don’t know but he’s been a good friend.” Bull became churlish. His voice was laced with nervous sarcasm. He said,

“What do you mean
natural balance
? Like he can ride a bike without falling off? So what? Even I can do that.” Saffron sighed,

“Do you have a problem with me seeing Maurice?”

“I don’t know the guy so I couldn’t comment.” Saffron’s lips curled into a devilish smile. She said, “Your Ying-Yang seems disrupted.”

Bull frowned, “Oh, speak English woman, just for a change?”

Saffron looked at him reproachfully. She sighed heavily and said,

“When you’re not here, I need someone to talk to.”

“You have your mam.”

“Besides my
mam
,” said Saffron faking a Mancunian accent.

“What about your friend Aisha?”

“She’s leaving for Rome and won’t be back until after the winter.”

“Why don’t you email or video call her? Or use virtual presence?”

“I need people to be actually present, not virtually present. I need to feel their aura. I need to sense things like trust, hope, or even doubt, and you can't do that without physical participation.”

Saffron stood up and walked to the sink to rinse out her cup. She stared out of the porthole, examining the potted herbs on the deck, and then over the ragwort growing in the verge behind the moorings to the diseased ravished trees swaying in the wind. Drying her cup with a dish towel she said,

“I only talk to my mother about the weather and cats. She knows nothing else about my life.”

“But there are no parameters when you talk to Maurice? Is that what you are saying? Do you talk about me?”

“It isn’t like that. We talk about pagan art and spiritualism. He’s from Brittany, they’re very mystical people. We also share our problems and talk them through.”

“And you can’t talk to me about that sort of thing?”

“Perhaps we could, if you were around for long enough.”

“Don’t you think I would rather be here with you? I don’t control the weather. I get just as frustrated as you when I can’t get home.”

Saffron walked into the living room and Bull followed. She bent down and mopped the spilled wine with the dish towel. Bull inspected Boris’s cage, making a few adjustments to his fake rock and foliage display. Saffron turned to face him, saying,

“You didn’t really explain why someone who works at the Clyde flood barrier needs to go to Iceland.” Bull turned away and pretended to take an interest in the contents of Saffron’s bookcase.

“I was asked to go. The company is selling its technology to their government. I can’t cycle to the Arctic. I used a solar flight to Reykjavik airport but the connection to the places they send me is a different matter. After the storm, I was lucky…”

“Good grief, how naive do you think I am?” Saffron returned to the galley and picked up a salt cellar. Again, Bull followed her.

“The company offset the carbon dioxide they use by buying carbon credits, planting trees and building wind turbines - all tax deductible of course. I don’t make the rules Saffron.”

“Yes, but you play by the rules, don’t you. You’re an
ecocrite
. You talk about saving the planet, but in essence what are you doing apart from expending a lot of hot air and working for a company that is profiting from the effects of climate change? You don’t even wear your Green Covenanters bracelet anymore.” Bull looked away shaking his head. He said,

“You’re changing the subject and deflecting the spotlight onto me.”

Saffron returned to the rug and started pouring salt on the wine stain. She looked up and considered the man standing above her. Despite who he was, she had managed to reach out to him, even change him. He was gentle and passionate but also stubborn. He would connect with her mentally as well as physically. He was a beautiful kisser, she thought, he must have had lots of practise. A moment of silence passed. He took a draw on his cigarette and finally he turned to her and said,

“Have you slept with him?” Saffron was startled by his directness.

“No. We haven’t got anywhere near that stage. It’s not that type of relationship.”

“Can you tell me when you do reach that stage?”

“I’ve already told you that it isn’t that sort of relationship. I knew you were too mentally stunted to understand. Is my English clear enough for you now?”

Saffron noticed ash had fallen from his cigarette and was burning a hole in her rug. She rushed to stamp out the cinders. Bull walked out of the narrowboat, slamming the hatch door behind him. She’d thought back to previous experiences before other
subjects of desire
, as she called them. She hated the phrase
boyfriend
or
partner,
the former sounded childish, and the later seemed like a dull business arrangement. One
subject of desire
had called her a praying mantis – elaborating that she was a predatory insect that unsuspectingly pounces and devours its victim alive. She thought of herself more like a mayfly: ephemeral, but free and beautiful, finding a mate, living and loving, if only for a short but passionate passing of time before ultimately dying. Rather that than exist like two caged beasts, living out an unfulfilled and protracted life in acquiescent comfort. She believed if she compromised her beliefs her plans would unravel, and it was important that her plans didn't unravel.

Chapter 7: Leaders of Men

Andrew woke at first light to the sound of heavy rain pummelling the canopy of the life raft. The previous night had been a bleak experience for him. Despite the company, he had felt desperately alone, floating in the darkness with his ear tuned to the silence. He had only managed a few hours of broken sleep.  He stuck his head through the aperture and surveyed the horizon for ships – nothing but grey sea. Curiously, he was distracted by the sight of a tennis ball, floating close to the raft. He returned his head to the shelter of the canopy and examined it, wondering what purpose it could serve. Finally, he cut the ball in half with his multi-tool to make two cups. He filled a cup with rainwater from the rain catch bladder and winced at the foul plastic taste. He had tasted worse, he thought. He crawled towards Malcolm and checked his condition – no change. He changed his bandages and then leant back on the pontoon and closed his eyelids.

Andrew allowed his mind to drift. He recalled the military training exercises where he had taught cadets how to filter muddied water by using a plastic bottle packed with sphagnum moss, how to catch and skin rabbits, build fires, erect shelters, and fend off relentless midge attacks. He had relished survival situations in the most challenging of environments, but could he compare the time spent in the Northumberland wilderness, up to his neck in muck and muscle, to his current situation: cast adrift in the ocean desert? He decided that the same principles would apply. He fantasised about his story being told in
National Geographic
or replayed by actors in a documentary.

Bull was lying at his feet, curled into the foetal position, trying to keep the chilled air from biting into his body. Some people act irrational and out of character, he thought. Was it possible that the Englishman’s annoying behaviour was a reaction to the dawning realisation that he was the victim of an incident, or was he merely naive? Survival situations can bring out the best or the worst in a person, but a leader always emerged. In any event the leadership issue was a pragmatic choice rather than a means to extract authority. The situation had been forced upon him. The situation required someone step forward and take command. He smiled, feeling pleased with his dabbler piece of field psychology. Andrew took hold of the bailer and began to scoop water from the floor of the raft, and then a sudden sharp pain emanated from one of his prolapsed haemorrhoids. There was time for a quick relieving scratch before Bull stirred from his slumber and caught him with his hand down the back of his trousers.

Andrew ignored Bull’s waking questions. Wasn’t it obvious enough that they hadn’t been rescued yet, or did it really matter what time of day it was, he thought. He had many tales of heroism itching to be told. He glared down at Bull’s form to find he had fallen back into a sleep. Andrew was too animated to let the moment slide. He directed a swift kick towards him. At first Bull didn’t flinch so he flicked stagnant seawater on his face. Again he failed to rouse him. He kicked him one more time, only harder. Bull cried out in shock rather than pain.

“Did you just kick me? asked Bull, stirring from his sleep, “I was having a nice dream about being back home for Sunday dinner. We were all down the Pig having a few pints, roast chicken and Yorkshire pudding…” Andrew interrupted him by pressing a forefinger to his lips. He said,

“I didn’t want to mention it yesterday, but I’ve been in a similar situation and survived.” Bull rubbed his eyes. He felt queasy and his muscles ached from the yesterday’s ordeal. He was in no mood to talk. His mouth was parched, his head throbbed and his stomach made pleading noises to be fed. “Where’s the water?” He said searching with his hand around the floor of the raft. Andrew filled one of the tennis ball cups with the water from the plastic bladder and passed it to Bull.

“It tastes like piss.” said Bull, screwing his face up in disgust.

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never tasted piss and hopefully will never have to. It is clean water, it’s safe to drink and it will keep us alive until we get rescued.”