A Distant Dream (19 page)

Then one morning, not far off Ceylon, which was the next port of call after sailing from Fremantle ten days before, Mel was sitting alone in the refreshment area, sipping an iced tea from a long, frosted glass and staring into the distance. Patrick dithered. She was sitting in the same spot that he liked to sit each morning whilst he waited for Kathleen to come and join him after they had breakfasted. He tutted. Now he would have to hang around outside Kathleen's cabin, until she had finished her ablutions and changed into her day dress. There was no way he wanted to be in this kind of girl's company and to have to endure her cheerful conversation of all things. He turned to walk away, but it was too late, as sometimes fate decrees a happening – the girl had seen him and waved across for him to join her and it would have been churlish not to have done.

She was wearing a long, pale, pink cotton wrap, the type of garment that most women on the vessel wore to cover up their swimwear. He saw that it was so as he joined her at the table, as the heat of the morning had made her figure visible through the thinness of the material. It caused Patrick to concentrate on the blueness of her eyes again.

“Going to the equator party?” she asked in a nonchalant manner, as if she was continuing a former conversation. She smiled at him engagingly, which made him want to hold that moment in his heart.

“I hadn't planned to” Patrick said hesitantly. “It's not something I would enjoy. I've heard it's all about getting drunk and being thrown into the swimming pool. I don't swim that well.”

“Oh, you'll love it. Tell you what, if I promise to come to the rescue if someone tries to drown you, will you sit at a table with me? My friend Sue, who I share a cabin with on Deck C, has got herself a boyfriend – one of the crewmen would you believe. That's why I'm sitting here on my own. And to be honest, I'm getting heartily sick of some of the boys in our party; I could do with some decent company.”

“I don't know, I'll have to see what my aunt and Harold want to do this evening.”

“Are you all joined at the hip?” She looked at him, frowning slightly.“Surely you're allowed off the tether now and again. Talk to me, will you Patrick? You always look as if you're ready for the off.”

“Kathleen has done a lot for me. I can't very well abandon her when she's paid for my trip to Europe.”

“Well, she doesn't look abandoned to me. Look over there – she's on the arm of the person I've heard you call Harold.”

Indeed she was. Kathleen was walking along the deck, her head thrown back as she laughed at something that Harold was saying.

“So, no excuses, sit with me and I'll tell you a bit about myself and then you can tell me a little about you.”

It transpired that Mel was the daughter of a man who had a small winery in the Barossa. The eldest of five children, she was taking a gap year before commencing her studies into European history at the University of South Australia.

“Long term I would like to become a lecturer on the subject, but for the moment I would like to put names to the places that I'll hopefully see.”

“Such as?” Patrick felt buoyed as he listened to her dreams and aspirations. He was relieved that she wasn't a silly young woman with cotton wool in her brain.

“Well, seeing that my ancestors come from Southern Ireland – my Dad had found out that he's third generation Irish by the way and so he gave us kids Irish sounding names, mine's really Maolisa – I thought I would make a start with Dublin. I've read a remarkable book that tells of the turbulence of Irish history via a storyteller and that, combined with tales told to me by my dad when I was a youngster, has been enough to make me want to investigate my roots. Then maybe I'll take a trip across to Paris; my mother is descended from French nobility. Think chateau in the eighteenth century and the name Molyneux. She's always ragging my father. She says that if his wines are fruity little numbers, it's her influence.”

“Oh.” Patrick felt embarrassed as he heard her speaking about her mother in that way, though he was heartened to hear that Mel was from Southern Ireland. It might even make them related if they were to go back into the eons of time. “And whereabouts in Ireland does your father's family come from, do you know?”

“I believe they were from Galway. At least an aunt who lives in London and is interested in the tracing of our ancestors believes so. She made a trip to the area in 1953, visited a few Catholic graveyards, found a few “Devines”, “Devaney's” and “Devereux” and decided that we were descended from stonemasons who worked on the little cottages round about. One of them, whose name was Cornelius Devaney, made the trek from Galway across to a place called Westport in the 1830s, but then unfortunately the trail went cold. His wife was called Moirin and they had three sons and that was as far as my Aunt Edna got with it. She thinks that the family probably emigrated to Australia during the famine years.”

All this time, Patrick's mind was a jumble of astonishment, hopefulness and a yearning that this girl would never disappear from his life. He saw them settled down and raising a family, he would work on a local farm and love her forever more. Then his spirits sank, as this vision quickly passed and he realised that she would want to follow her dreams of becoming a lecturer and living in a place full of sunshine, not settle in a wet and misty land.

“And from the lilt you have in your voice Patrick, I'd say you were also from the old country.”

Mel's beautiful eyes stared into his keenly as she waited for him to tell her of his own ancestry. He nodded, loathe to pick at the wounds that he carried within his heart.

“Not more than a generation though, didn't come over on a leaky old ship like my forebears had to do.”

Then suddenly, there he was, beginning to tell her his tale. He couldn't stop himself. He wanted her to know of his pain and anguish, about the country that he'd had to leave behind because of a priest's stuffed shirt morality and how he had lost his parents in a stupid war, which being Irish, they hadn't even wanted to be a part of. He found that he was shaking; his body, his limbs, even his face was as the tears ran down his cheeks, as he recalled that night when he had lain injured amongst the rubble of the house, after it had collapsed upon the three of them. The terror he had felt as he heard the screech from another bomb nearby and the following explosion, the groan of the next door building as it tore from its footings and crashed into the road. His desperation and grief stricken heartbreak when the man who had lifted him from the ruins, had told him gently that his parents hadn't survived the blast and carried him to hospital through the devastated streets.

Suddenly embarrassed, as he noticed the look of concern from a fellow passenger who was sitting on a nearby table, he rejected the hand that Mel held out to him in sympathy, got to his feet and rushed away.

“Hi”. She was hunkered down on the wooden deck outside the gentlemens' toilet, where Patrick had dashed when the embarrassment of the occasion had caused him to hide his unmanly tears.

“Sorry, I'm not usually a blubberer…”

Smiling gently, she got to her feet and linked her arm through his. “Let's walk around the ship a bit. Let's have a look at that island in the distance that they call Indonesia. You know, dear Patrick, that we may never pass this way again.”

It was a magical time for the two of them, a shipboard romance with all the trimmings. The stars shone brightly, evenings were spent together staring at the golden moon as the vessel continued on across the ocean to Sri Lanka. Two young people who began to share their hopes and dreams. Gone was her frivolity of youth, as Mel began to spurn the company of the girls with whom she shared a cabin and the arrogant boys who made up their group, as she sought Patrick's company instead. She even managed to get him to the King Neptune party, which celebrated the crossing of the middle of the world. It was a fun night, with the female entertainment staff dressed as mermaids and a giant plaster model of the Ancient Ruler of the Seas. There was diving for treats, races to be the first one to get to the finishing line with a borrowed item, forfeits which involved a lot of merriment and a lot of riotous dunking of people who had never crossed the equator before.

Kathleen, becoming increasingly worried when she saw that Patrick was becoming involved with a most unsuitable girl, who in her eyes was a “flibbertigibbert” and not the kind of person he should be friends with, tried to keep him close, as Patrick, having never been used to mixing with the youth of Willunga, preferring to shun most of the social life such as drinking in the local pubs or dancing at the assembly rooms, was not used to flippancy or sometimes thoughtless adolescent ways. Harold, now a daily presence in her life, advised her to loosen her apron strings.

On this particular night, as the ship drifted along towards the port of Columbo, most passengers having made their way to their beds, with just a group of young men making a racket by the swimming pool, Patrick and Mel, both still dressed in their swimwear as it was a balmy night, held hands in the shadows as they lay side by side on two wooden chairs. Kathleen and Harold had been to a lecture that day, this time on the history of Ceylon, now named Sri Lanka and the ship, needing to top up on fuel and provisions would be anchored along the wharf for a short time the next morning and the passengers would be allowed to disembark.

“Kathleen said they're going to have a look around St. Paul's Church first, then visit a couple of old colonial buildings. They suggested that we might like to walk along the Galle Face Green promenade together. She told me that it is at the side of the Mount Lavinia beach and lined with palm trees.”

“Hmm – romantic, didn't know she cared.” Mel purred with contentment.

Patrick stroked her hand, feeling relaxed after drinking a few dark beers.

“She's getting used to me and you. Don't forget I've been a big part of her life for the past ten years. Anyway, she was telling me that the British took over Ceylon from the Portuguese in 1848, something to do with swelling their empire at the instruction of their then Queen Victoria. It would have been the usual thing, forcing their religious beliefs on them, governing with prejudice and injustice, just like they did when they gave our land to the English lords centuries ago.”

“You sound bitter.”

“I blame the British for the Catholic evictions and the loss of our traditions and our Irish law. My dad told me of the struggles, the famines, when even then Ireland was exporting grain to England and our people were dying in their thousands on the roadside. Then there was the Easter Rising in Dublin. According to my dad, his father got caught up in a skirmish and was sent to the city's jail. My grandad, who I can't remember well as I was a small child when he went to Heaven, was supposed to have shouted as they lead him away in manacles.
Beidh la eile ag
an bPaorach
. “We will live to fight another day”. I miss them, Mel – even now I miss my mother who would sit me on her knee and sing old Irish lullabies and Dad would say a prayer or two as I settled down in my bed. He took me shooting for rabbits, fishing for salmon in the River Moy and my mother's cooking was – well she was a dab hand at cooking. She made everything taste delicious, especially her rabbit stew. Sometimes me, Billy and Brendan Hanley would splash buck naked in the “Giant's Tub” nearby.”

Mel leant over and was about to kiss poor Patrick on the cheek in sympathy, but shrieked when she saw what was about to happen, as two men came out of the shadows and began to lay about him.

“Another bloke trying ter pinch one of our girls, eh Paddy? Get him Rick, let's throw the bog trotter in the water and see if he sinks or swims!”

He was hurled off the chair by the two young men who had crept up behind them, whilst Patrick had been engrossed in his memories. He struggled to be free as they dragged him by his arms to the side of the nearby swimming pool, where he slipped on a puddle as they let him go. The last voice he heard was Mel's. She stood there screaming, as his head went down upon the concrete trim.

He groaned, as through the mist that swirled above him he saw a little, dark haired girl who was dressed in a long, white dress and frowning down at him from a pair of cornflower eyes.

“Patrick, Patrick, thank God you're still alive.” He heard someone shouting and he saw that it was Mel who was frowning down at him, the girl he had begun to love.

Columbo, was the political capital of Sri Lanka, with its large harbour in a strategic position along the East West trade route, the Jami Ul-Alfar Mosque, a recognised landmark for sailors as they approached the port and the Old Columbo lighthouse to guide the ships in. It had been independent from the British since 1948. Here at this busy port, where the
SLNS Rangalla
formed the Sri Lankan Naval Base, containers lined the dockside, where a ferry liner could be caught to take passengers just across the Gulf of Mannar to Tuticoran on mainland India, or ride on a coastal train to Galle and Matara and where auto rickshaws waited for the passengers of the
Arcadia
to disembark.

It had been the sick bay for Patrick and the “brig” for his two tormentors. Kathleen, summoned by the commotion from where she was having a nightcap with Harold, had demanded to see the captain, insisting that the two young men were put off the ship at Columbo as their punishment. Nursing a sore head where a piece of a broken glass that hadn't been swept up at the King Neptune party had caused a gash which needed stitching, Patrick went in and out of wakefulness. He dreamt he was lying on a beach in Aldinga, with the rippling sound of the tide nearby bringing pleasure to his ears. He felt free from pain. He was comfortable; nothing mattered at that time. The little girl whom he remembered seeing before he had regained consciousness, was standing on the sand dunes and when he waved she disappeared, leaving him to wonder who she was.

He saw Kathleen, as she sat by his bedside, bemoaning his meeting with the girl called Mel – it was her fault that he had been set upon. Of Mel there was no sign, no doubt having been warned off by Patrick's “aunty”, but he found he still dreamt about her. She was standing by the “Giant's Tub”, near the cottages, watching two small children as they splashed about in the river below.

*

After the
Arcadia
had weighed anchor, cruising into the Arabian Ocean on its way to the Gulf of Aden, Patrick who had been given the all clear by the surgeon once the glass had been removed and the wound sewn up with a couple of stitches, lay quietly besides Kathleen and Harold in a deck chair, as a couple of recent painkillers he had swallowed began to take its hold.

With Kathleen feeling unable to leave Patrick's bedside whilst the ship had been berthed at Columbo, it had been down to Harold to disembark and report back on the sightseeing that he had done on her behalf. There was a description of the church and the national museum that held many local artefacts and he had even managed to take a walk along the promenade where happy children flew their kites. Patrick lay half listening, feeling down because his hopes of a romantic stroll with Mel had been dashed by the bullies who'd been marched away by two burly crewmen. The next morning, after giving the young men a warning of what would happen if they got into trouble again, and the order to apologise to their injured victim, the captain had set them free from their captivity.

“So, I was thinking. When –” Kathleen stopped mid sentence, as the person who was standing above her, blocked out the afternoon sun. “What do
you
want, young lady? Don't you think you've caused enough trouble because of the behaviour of your male followers?”

“Kathleen, that isn't fair” Patrick protested, his heart beginning to beat quickly as he saw who was standing there. She was wearing a white, short, puffed sleeve blouse and a dark blue, dirndl skirt and her eyes were downcast as she acknowledged her blame. “Mel didn't know that they were going to pounce on me, did you Mel? Come here and share my chair.”

“Let's go and get a coffee, Kathleen” said Harold, seeing that Kathleen's feathers were becoming rather ruffled as she tried to shelter her chick. “Leave the young ones to sort things out.” He looked at his wristwatch. “Ooops and it's nearly time to dress for dinner.”

Kathleen walked straight backed as she followed Harold, but declined to comment either way, though she knew deep down that she had lost the fight of keeping Patrick close to her. She had to remember he was now a man of twenty two.

“I'm sorry Patrick, I should have seen it coming. The guys were jealous because Sue had begun seeing this bloke who works in the engine room, another of our group got chatting to one of the waiters and then when they saw us doing a spot of canoodling, they thought they would teach you a lesson. It was the drink of course, none of them are used to it, nor being let off the leash by their parents and being responsible for themselves. They said they'd come over and apologise if you'll let them.” She put her hand out and touched his cheek, looking closely at the padding that the surgeon had covered the wound and the bruising with. “Does it hurt much? Thank God you didn't have far to fall with them still having a bit of a hold on you. Oh Patrick, I couldn't sleep last night for worrying and your aunty was like a sentry on the door when I asked could I see you this morning.”

“That's Kathleen for you, ever the mother hen.” Patrick smiled wryly, as he acknowledged her concern for him. “It's because she loves me, doesn't want anyone else to have a look in.”

“I know, but she has to let go of you some time, you're not a little child anymore. I say, why don't you see if she will let me join you for dinner and perhaps we can start over again?”

*

Thoughts were being directed towards the coming Christmas celebrations, which according to the weekly newsletter that was pushed under the door by a member of the entertainment crew, would be full of great jubilation. A Christmas Eve dinner dance, Midnight Mass for those who wanted to worship, a Christmas lunch with a visit from Santa and an afternoon tea with festive fayre. In the evening there would be a production of the pantomime
Aladdin,
a character from
Arabian Nights;
the cast would be members of the officers and crew.

The recent unrest in the area, due to the continuing posturing of certain governments, mostly the British and French, who were insistent that they owned the Suez Canal, was now over and President Nasser, head of Egyptian rule, ensured that more ships were given access to the shortcut to the Mediterranean, instead of taking the long way around as they had before. The journey, with favourable weather, could be cut down by at least ten days, whereas during the Suez Crisis and before the canal was built, vessels would have to voyage around the Cape of Good Hope.

To be fair to Kathleen, she did make a monumental effort with her attitude towards Patrick's girlfriend, for that was who Mel had become. Shaken by the incident and the scar on Patrick's forehead that constantly reminded her of the part she might have played in it, Mel had realised how much he had come to mean to her and hoped that this time they were spending together, wouldn't become a distant memory. Kathleen too had come to terms with the role that she must now play if she wanted to be part of Patrick's future. It had to be one of support, not criticism, as this young lady may one day become his wife.

For her, gone were her thoughts of touring the world, the pioneer of the Aldridge family, living an independent life and finding a job somewhere. In the short time that she and Harold had become acquainted, they had found themselves to have similar interests and certain values in life. She felt compassion for the man who she now knew had watched his wife as she died from terminal cancer. Harold in turn, had begun to feel a certain attraction to this kind-hearted woman, who had spent her years in unselfish duty to Patrick and her brother's farm. His heart was touched and although he could see that they may well settle down with each other in the future, there was still a lot of ocean to travel before they could make any plans.

*

Opened in 1869, the brainchild of a Frenchman called Ferdinand de Lessep, the Suez Canal was a heavily travelled shipping lane – 101 miles long, 984 feet wide, many lives had been lost in its construction.

With the Christmas celebrations over, strange though it had been to some to be experiencing the festive season in glorious sunshine, instead of seeing snow and robins, it was time to dock at the Port of Aden at the beginning of the Red Sea. The place was full of volcanic dust. It was smelly, dirty and not the type of location where a tourist would wish to sightsee, unless they wanted to wander through the narrow streets where market stalls had been erected to sell the unsuspecting a souvenir or two, or be taken for a short ride on a camel led by a fez adorned Arab. The three hours allocated to taking on fuel, water and other supplies was enough for most passengers to stay on board. The Suez Canal, though, was an impressive sight and sailing along it was an experience that many would boast about for years to come. Most of the canal was not wide enough for two vessels to pass, so several passing bays had been created to keep the shipping moving. There were no locks, which is common in European waterways, because the Mediterranean and the Red Sea are at the same level and vessels could only drift at low speed, to prevent the banks of the canal from eroding.

Patrick and Mel, standing together arm in arm on the promenade deck, watched wide-eyed at the vast sand dunes disappearing into the distance, a military encampment complete with white tents and dilapidated trucks, a couple of camels loaded up with a merchant's goods, the flat roofed dwellings which made up the houses of the small Ismailian villages and fishermen sailing by in long narrow boats. Tugs and ferry boats criss-crossed the narrow isthmus and ships' horns from cargo boats in the passing bays sounded in greeting as the
R.M.S Arcadia
sailed slowly by.

“Something to tell our children” Patrick said dreamily, his thoughts drifting to the future, when he and Mel would have settled down and begun to raise a family – a little girl with long dark hair and a sturdy boy with big, blue eyes.

“Our children?” Mel gazed at him curiously, whilst fleetingly asking herself if that was what she wanted, to settle down with this bashful young man. Thoughts of travel and a career as a lecturer in European history came also; it was what she had always wanted to do.

“Don't you want them too?” Patrick looked lost as he realised that maybe her vision of the future was not the same as his.

“One day” she acknowledged slowly. “But Patrick we've hardly got to know each other, don't you think you might be racing ahead?”

“I love you Mel,” he babbled, hoping he could persuade her with his feelings. “I have from the first day I saw you by the souvenir shop. We're meant together. I'll get a job, we'll travel if you want, the children can wait until you're ready for them. I want to have what my parents had, until some selfish bastard who wanted world domination destroyed their world.” He quickly got down on one knee, much to the embarrassment of Mel and the surprise of the other passengers, who like themselves were watching the ship's progress along the canal. “Marry me Mel.”

“Get up, you idiot, you're making a show of us.” Mel hissed, looking at him in annoyance because in her eyes, he was humiliating himself. “We'll talk about it.”

So what was he supposed to do?
He asked himself, when after what he had thought was a romantic proposal, Mel suggested that they go for a drink and discuss their future without an audience. Was it wrong of him to have made his proposal in front of other people, though wasn't that what a man who was in love with his girlfriend usually did? Didn't they go down on bended knee to pop the question? He was sure that was what one of the lead actors in a recent film that he had seen had done. He supposed he'd blown it now, as he trailed miserably behind her shapely figure, dressed as she was once again in her puffed sleeved blouse and short, dirndl skirt, this time barefooted. He'd made a fool of himself by asking her to marry him when she had dreams of becoming a lecturer and he was a farm worker, “a bog trotter” as those boys had called him, not even good enough to wipe her boots.

“Patrick” she said gently, taking her hand in his, after he had ordered two glass of iced tea from the waiter and was sitting at her side, unable to meet her eyes. “Patrick, it's not that I wouldn't want to marry in the future, but I've only just finished college and I was hoping to see a bit of the world, get my studies over, get a job, be independent.”

“I thought we loved each other, I thought that what I was supposed to do. I don't know how to act, how to behave myself, I've never had a girl in my life before.”

Mel nodded. “I know that, but now is not the time for you and I.”

“Well, there's nothing more to say then” he said bitterly, getting up to go, already beginning to feel his ready tears about to surface. “I wish you luck with your future Mel, but you'll never find anyone to love you more than me.”

“Patrick…”

He walked away to sit in his cabin reflecting on the people that he'd loved and had been taken away. To be fair, he couldn't say that of Kathleen, although he knew that there might be a parting of the ways when they got to Tilbury because of Harold, but she had always shown her love for him, no matter what he did.