‘We’re not stopping nowhere this side of the North Sea . . . Seems like you’re going to be with us for a while longer. But not because the Commander’s changed his mind about you. Some Scottish fishing boat’s gone missing in the Sea of Murmansk. The Commander’s in an awful hurry to get up to there. To the north. Can’t say as how I know how we can make much of a difference – we’re only a crew of eight – but that’s the Commander for you. He has a way of finding his way to where the trouble is . . . Think you can stand? Think you can get some seafaring clothes on you? I’ve brought you some galoshes and oilskins and a nice warm sweater. The wind is fresh. Must be up to ten knots or so. And the swell is high.’
‘I know,’ Marina closed her eyes. ‘I can feel it.’
Brown opened the dogs’ cage and let them out. They snuffled around the hold, exploring their domain. One of them – the curious dog with the different-coloured eyes – came up to the hammock and sniffed Marina’s hand.
‘He’s a character, that one,’ Brown remarked, changing the straw the dogs had slept on.
The dog made a funny yowling noise that sounded as if he were trying to speak; in fact Marina had the impression that he thought he was speaking. And he was expecting her answer.
‘Well, thank you,’ she whispered, tugging his ear affectionately. ‘I feel as rough as sandpaper. That’s what Ivy says when she’s done a day of laundry. I do just wish the boat would stop moving for a moment.’
The dog gave this some thought and replied in his own way.
‘They’re not seasick at all,’ Marina said to Brown.
‘They’re not. They’re good little sailors, those dogs. Put up with anything. Now, you rascals, enough with the chat. Time to get back in that cage. Breakfast will be in an hour, miss. Reckon it would be good for you to try and eat something. Might settle that stomach of yours.’
Slowly Marina swung her legs over the side and, as long as she didn’t look at the horizon swinging around through the porthole, she felt she might be able to stand. The dogs, seeing this, stood up too, as if they might all be about to go somewhere together. A few started yowling in that strange way, as if they had to tell her something extremely important.
‘I can’t understand a word you’re saying,’ she told them as she reached for the clothes that Brown had left out for her. ‘But I’ll go and find out all the news.’
She folded her blanket neatly. Sailors were always very neat: they didn’t have the luxury of space at sea. She stripped off the hated school uniform, kicking it into the shadows between the crates of stores and equipment. She had no way of washing in the hold (what a relief ). She ran her tongue over her teeth. They were slightly furry, but she didn’t care.
‘You don’t need to clean your teeth, do you?’ she said to the dogs. ‘So why should I?’ She pulled on the thick fisherman’s sweater and rolled up the sleeves. The socks came up over her knees. Next came the stiff oilskin trousers, which were so large they looked like a clown’s costume. The galoshes were too big for her too so she put her boots back on. She flattened her hair with her hands: her ribbons and hairbrush were packed in her trunk and therefore somewhere in Hampshire, rather than on the North Sea, where they were needed. Well, she couldn’t be bothered about such things now. ‘It’s just vanity,’ she told herself. A tiny flutter of excitement in the pit of her stomach. She was wearing seafaring clothes. She had not been put off the boat. She was to stay on the Sea Witch. Who knew what adventures she might have, so long as she refused to look at the horizon through the porthole. Or think of her father’s fury the day before.
‘I’ll have to spend as much time as possible on deck,’ she told herself. ‘The fresh air will blow away the seasickness.’
She pushed open the trapdoor, blinked at the light, sniffed the air. She climbed out, her oilskins creaking. Once on deck, she took a moment to adjust to the swaying of the boat. The air nipped her cheeks and made her flattened hair fly around. Spume rose over the narrow prow. She staggered forward a few paces. The wind jostled her. The engines hummed, the waves jumped, the deck rolled. The coast had fallen away. She had the sudden impression that everyone had left her while she was in the hold, and that she was now quite alone on a small, fragile boat travelling across an immense and unknown sea. In her kitbag was the book her father had written for her last birthday. It was called The Lonely Mariner and told the sad tale of the captain of a two-masted brigantine. This poor wretch crossed the seas alone, always trying to get back to port but prevented by tragedy. The way her father had written the story, with the captain battling against storms, sea monsters and loneliness, made the sea seem a frightening place, awash with peril and sadness.
‘I am no lonely mariner,’ Marina told herself. ‘I am a Denham. The sea is in my blood.’ The sea didn’t think much of that, and she almost toppled over.
She stood with her feet wide apart and tried to feel the movement of the waves. The trick was not to fight them, but to move with them.
A man appeared from behind the metal stairs and leant over the side of the boat. He, too, was dressed in oilskins and wore a knitted cap. It wasn’t Brown or Perkins. It was the surly man who had pulled up the gangplank.
‘Good morning!’ she cried out.
He looked up, as if annoyed at being disturbed,
