The Pearl in the Ice

its speed, its hull shape. She even pulled out the length of rope she kept in her tunic pocket. Anything to keep him from leaving for a few more minutes. ‘You said that every good sailor can tie a hundred knots. Well, I can! Look!’ But her hands got in a muddle under her father’s intent gaze. She felt her cheeks get hotter until her father took the length of tangled rope out of her hands. He gently unknotted it and she watched closely as his hands threaded the rope through several loops.
‘Practise this one: it’s called the pearl fishers’ knot,’ he said, handing it back to her. ‘You know that, at sea, the ropes are rarely dry when you need to tie or untie them. This knot works when the rope is swollen with water. It’s hard because of the double loop. Especially if it’s freezing and you are wearing fur-lined gloves.’
Marina thought of the box which had arrived yesterday morning. R. SOLOMON AND SONS, WHITECHAPEL had been stamped on the lid. FURRIER.
‘This knot saved my life on a remote island one winter, and brought me something very special.’ Her father frowned and whispered something that made no sense. ‘A pearl from beneath the ice.’
Marina could see from his eyes that he was journeying alone amongst his thoughts. She didn’t want him to leave her a moment before he needed to.
‘Was that when you lost your toe?’ she asked him. She pulled on his sleeve to bring him back to her. She loved her father’s stories, but he only rarely gave her glimpses of his seafaring life and, like being allowed just a tiny piece of chocolate, it only left her wanting more.
He looked at her, surprised, as if he were waking up to find himself in a strange room. ‘The very place. Almost lost my nose, too.’ He tweaked her nose between his finger and thumb. ‘Happy times, eh? Anyway, you train yourself to do that fiendish knot. And by the time you can do it with your eyes closed, I’ll be home again.’
Her father put on his cap in a smooth, practised movement: his transformation was complete. He was all Commander Denham; no part of her father remained.
‘Do I have to go to that dreadful school? I don’t want to learn to sew or how to dance. If I must go to school, let me go to Edward’s. It’s in a forest and they write poetry under the trees and make their own chairs from the wood they gather.’
Her father didn’t turn around. His voice sounded smaller than usual. ‘You have spent your childhood without a mother, Marina. No one to teach you how to be a wife or a mother. You can’t even wear a dress. How else will you be fit for the world if you don’t learn these things?’
With those words, Marina broke the surface of her unhappiness. She could breathe. She could speak. ‘I don’t want to wear a dress! I don’t want be a lady drinking tea in the parlour! I want to be useful. I want to have a job. I want to read the newspapers and have opinions and . . . and . . . march for votes for women!’
Her father turned then, a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. Marina could see he was stifling a laugh. ‘Work? March for votes? For women? What has Ivy been reading in those newspapers?’
‘But, Father! Ivy says women will get the vote by next year.’
‘Giving votes to housekeepers and parlourmaids?’ He shuddered. ‘Whatever next?’ He picked up his kitbag and a large wooden case. It rattled alarmingly.
Ivy appeared from the kitchen, her plain face blotched, her wiry hair escaping from her hairpins. She dabbed her eyes with the corner of her apron. ‘Go safely, Commander,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll pray for your safe passage across the Bay of Biscay.’ And she shivered. ‘Oooh, I couldn’t even make it past the pier at Margate when I went with my sister last Whitsuntide. How you manage on those raging waves . . .’ The Commander frowned. Ivy stopped.
And as the clock in the hall delivered its six chimes, Commander Denham, ever punctual, bent to kiss Marina on the top of her head. Marina closed her eyes, willing him to still be there when she opened them.
The front door slammed. The clock ticked on.

3
Ivy tutted. ‘Well, he’s gone.’
Marina opened her eyes.
‘And who knows if he’ll ever come back.’ Ivy shook her head. ‘It’s a sorry day,’ she said as she turned to go down the stairs. ‘Are you ready for tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘Can you go and check your uniform list and put your clothes in the trunk? Mind you do it carefully. I’ve got all my jobs to do before shutting up the house. It will just be bread and butter for tea. The Commander had the last of the cutlets for lunch.’
‘I’ll keep out of your way,’ Marina said, feeling more wretched than she had thought possible.
‘There’s a good girl.’ Ivy looked relieved. ‘And have a bath, will you? You look filthy.’
There were strict rules about drawing a bath in the Denham household which made the whole process an unpleasant affair. The water was not only to be cold, but there was to be very little of it. In fact, after his wife had left seven years before, Commander Denham had painted a thick red line on the inside of the deep bath: it was to be filled no higher. But today, angry with her father for leaving for Portsmouth, Marina turned on the taps – hot as well as cold – as far as they would go and watched with a thrilling sense of defiance as the water gushed out.
She put her foot up on the side of the bath and inspected it. There was a patch of scaly skin on her right foot. Had it got bigger since the morning when she had pulled on her socks? She couldn’t be sure. She prodded