I wish they’d sent me, Marina thought, but didn’t say anything for fear of being made fun of. A mere girl could hardly be sent to such inhospitable and remote places.
‘It’s a shame we can’t go ashore here,’ she said. ‘I’m sad that we’ve come all this way and I can’t even see the town.’
‘We don’t have time,’ Jones said. ‘The Commander was quite clear that we can’t waste a moment.’
How different Svengejar was from Portsmouth! There were no battleships or large merchant vessels in the small harbour; only small fishing boats were anchored in these peaceful, glassy waters. There were no vast warehouses, no train terminus or grand hotel. The hillside was not draped in rows of stone-built villas. In Svengejar, the painted wooden houses clung to the shoreline, as tightly packed as mussels on a rock. Behind the pitched wooden roofs rose a single church spire as sharp as an icicle. Beyond these buildings, seemingly huddled together for warmth during the coming winter, a low, barren, hill lightly dusted in fresh snow. Beyond that, the vast territories of Muskovy.
Despite the early hour, the town was already stirring. A boat had returned and the night’s haul was being unloaded, the nets sagging with the weight of silver-scaled fish. Townsfolk walked briskly along the quay as they went to their work. Horses pulled carts piled with cabbages or timber or milk churns. Two blond-haired children ran along the broad pavement. They wore thick dark jackets, scarves and caps; protection from the bustling wind. They stopped and waved enthusiastically. Marina waved back.
In moments, the Sea Witch’s anchor was dropped and the boat was tied up. The engines stopped and, for the first time in days, that constant, throaty noise ceased. A young man from the harbour master’s office stood on the quay, waiting to check that the Sea Witch’s papers were in order. Commander Denham appeared, wearing his fisherman’s duffle coat and woollen hat. He strode purposefully down the gangplank and handed over his documents. The young man scanned them quickly and signalled to a waiting cart, which was filled with coal: the Sea Witch would be in port only for as long as it took to take on enough fuel and fresh water to get her up to Pechorin Island and back to Svengejar, and then home.
Brown and Perkins got on with their work, Marina’s father returned to the bridge. Jones had signals to wait for. Marina stood with Paddy and watched the Finn-markers go about their business. This was the first time she had ever been to another country, and she was fascinated. Had her mother come from such a place as this? When Marina was younger and had asked her father, he would say things like, ‘She came from elsewhere.’ Not much of an answer. But she understood, without his saying, that the question made him sad.
But imagine! Her mother might be living here, or somewhere like it, right now. Marina might, if she looked hard enough, catch sight of her as she walked along the edge of the harbour. For surely her mother would no longer be an invalid, no longer need her canes somewhere where the air was so clean and wholesome – so different from the smog and soot and dust of London. Yes, her mother had come back here just to regain her strength. Made well again, she would walk briskly, her head held high, hoping that one day very soon her beloved daughter would come into the port on a fishing vessel and find her. Oh, her mother would cry and hold Marina tight. Then, wiping away her tears, she would say, ‘Come, dear heart. I have a little room made ready for you. There is a pretty bed for you to sleep in and a soft blue rug and the sweetest muslin curtains. You will stay with me and we will never part.’
Of course, the morning being chill, her mother might be wearing a coat over her emerald-green dress, meaning that Marina would have to look very hard to see her. She might appear as mysterious as the cloaked figure Marina noticed walking very quickly along the quay, holding their hood up with pale, slender fingers. But her mother’s hair was black, and it was a coil of auburn hair that escaped from the dark prison of the hood. And her mother would never wear red boots that showed an inch of calf.
‘Miss Smith?’ Marina gasped. What was the secretary to the First Sea Lord doing in Svengejar? Did she have an urgent and secret communiqué to give to a naval commander? But there were no British dreadnoughts in the harbour.
What should Marina do? She didn’t have time to go to her father and ask for permission to get off the boat. In the time it would take to explain everything, Miss Smith would have disappeared. And how could she explain? Marina had, after all, promised to keep their meeting on the train a secret. She looked over at Brown and Perkins: they were busy moving a thick hose towards the fresh-water cistern. There was no one on the bridge.
She ran down the gangplank, expecting someone to call her name. But no call came.
She had escaped.
As Marina scurried along the neat, pretty streets following the cloaked figure, she imagined how Miss Smith’s face would light up when she turned to see her. How pleased the young woman would be to hear of Marina’s adventures!
‘I found my father,’ Marina would tell her, ‘and I’m a Boy, 2nd class. I get paid sixpence a day, so I have a paid occupation. And I’m so helpful and so useful. I look after the dogs – oh, they are so cute and friendly, even though I mustn’t pet them and fuss over them. They talk to me, really.
