hopelessness, but the awful dignity of silent reproach and this had, in some extrasensory way, preceded them, alerting the watchers to their coming.
They were towed the length of Keppel Harbour, past the idle ships of two dozen nations; past the manifestly opportunist convenience of, perhaps, no more than half that number of so-called national flags. It seemed, too, they dragged more than a cloud of the patrol boatâs foul exhaust gases behind them, for as they passed the
Matthew Flinders
âs officers, surprise had changed to a sort of half-comprehended embarrassment. The five men looked sheepishly at one another, and then avoided each otherâs eyes as though they were in some way guilty of something they were unable to put words to.
Then, in a hiss of intensification, heavier rain swept down the harbour, driving in under the awning and the watchers turned away for the shelter of the accommodation and the five-course dinner awaiting them in the saloon.
Stevenson was the last in the queue as they stumbled over the sea step in their haste. Perhaps because of the upsets of the last hour he felt most acutely that dumb accusation. He looked back.
The heavier rain had overtaken the boatload of refugees. They were blurred against the brown diesel fumes of the still-audible patrol boat, and then blotted out, as though nature itself was affronted.
But Stevenson was left with the indelible memory of several scores of people remaining perfectly motionless.
Captain Mackinnon was depressed and aware that if he didnot put a stop to this solitary drinking he was going to go to bed drunk and wake up tomorrow with a thumping hangover. In defiance of common sense he poured himself another gin and slopped the remains of a tonic bottle into the glass after it. Not wanting to drink the gin so undiluted he rose unsteadily to his feet, barked his shin on the corner of the coffee table and bent to reach in his drinks locker. He withdrew the last bottle of tonic, opened it and filled his glass.
A faint sensation of nausea uncoiled itself in his belly and perspiration broke out on his broad forehead. He swore horribly and trenchantly under his breath. He had been here before.
Alcohol, the inescapable lubricant which oiled the working of human imperfection, was too easily obtained, too freely part of the everyday, aboard ship. It accrued to itself a host of little rituals, small steps and bobs and curtsies of a sinister measure, the dance of a slow death.
There was no denying the sight of those unfortunate refugees had disturbed the self-confident equilibrium of Captain Mackinnonâs life. He did not know quite why, for he was largely an unimaginative man, except that their plight had raised doubts in his mind. Firstly he doubted his own right to happiness, and his imagination in contemplating retirement saw his future solely in such terms, though the practical difficulties and trials of his life had conditioned him also to doubt its actual existence. Moreover, such an occidental assumption that he had earned his retirement was palpably unjust in the face of the misery he had just witnessed. And finally he doubted the value of human endeavour that seemed, eternally, to fail to achieve what must be achieved to improve the reality of existence.
He had found the imposition of these depressing considerations too gloomy, too insuperable to shrug them off ashore, and had settled to his longely binge, putting off the agentâs invitation until the following evening.
Bleary-eyed he stared about him round the cabin and swore again. Yes, yes, a thousand times yes, he would abandon this, this obverse of the panoply of command, to be sitting with Shelagh who had long ago pulled him back from the abyss upon whose edge he now teetered, remembering . . .
And, remembering, he knew the answers to his doubts: his love for Shelagh, their love for each other, marked him as lucky. He was a lucky man and Shelagh proved it. Not as lucky
They were towed the length of Keppel Harbour, past the idle ships of two dozen nations; past the manifestly opportunist convenience of, perhaps, no more than half that number of so-called national flags. It seemed, too, they dragged more than a cloud of the patrol boatâs foul exhaust gases behind them, for as they passed the
Matthew Flinders
âs officers, surprise had changed to a sort of half-comprehended embarrassment. The five men looked sheepishly at one another, and then avoided each otherâs eyes as though they were in some way guilty of something they were unable to put words to.
Then, in a hiss of intensification, heavier rain swept down the harbour, driving in under the awning and the watchers turned away for the shelter of the accommodation and the five-course dinner awaiting them in the saloon.
Stevenson was the last in the queue as they stumbled over the sea step in their haste. Perhaps because of the upsets of the last hour he felt most acutely that dumb accusation. He looked back.
The heavier rain had overtaken the boatload of refugees. They were blurred against the brown diesel fumes of the still-audible patrol boat, and then blotted out, as though nature itself was affronted.
But Stevenson was left with the indelible memory of several scores of people remaining perfectly motionless.
Captain Mackinnon was depressed and aware that if he didnot put a stop to this solitary drinking he was going to go to bed drunk and wake up tomorrow with a thumping hangover. In defiance of common sense he poured himself another gin and slopped the remains of a tonic bottle into the glass after it. Not wanting to drink the gin so undiluted he rose unsteadily to his feet, barked his shin on the corner of the coffee table and bent to reach in his drinks locker. He withdrew the last bottle of tonic, opened it and filled his glass.
A faint sensation of nausea uncoiled itself in his belly and perspiration broke out on his broad forehead. He swore horribly and trenchantly under his breath. He had been here before.
Alcohol, the inescapable lubricant which oiled the working of human imperfection, was too easily obtained, too freely part of the everyday, aboard ship. It accrued to itself a host of little rituals, small steps and bobs and curtsies of a sinister measure, the dance of a slow death.
There was no denying the sight of those unfortunate refugees had disturbed the self-confident equilibrium of Captain Mackinnonâs life. He did not know quite why, for he was largely an unimaginative man, except that their plight had raised doubts in his mind. Firstly he doubted his own right to happiness, and his imagination in contemplating retirement saw his future solely in such terms, though the practical difficulties and trials of his life had conditioned him also to doubt its actual existence. Moreover, such an occidental assumption that he had earned his retirement was palpably unjust in the face of the misery he had just witnessed. And finally he doubted the value of human endeavour that seemed, eternally, to fail to achieve what must be achieved to improve the reality of existence.
He had found the imposition of these depressing considerations too gloomy, too insuperable to shrug them off ashore, and had settled to his longely binge, putting off the agentâs invitation until the following evening.
Bleary-eyed he stared about him round the cabin and swore again. Yes, yes, a thousand times yes, he would abandon this, this obverse of the panoply of command, to be sitting with Shelagh who had long ago pulled him back from the abyss upon whose edge he now teetered, remembering . . .
And, remembering, he knew the answers to his doubts: his love for Shelagh, their love for each other, marked him as lucky. He was a lucky man and Shelagh proved it. Not as lucky
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