Celia scowled and returned to her book.
When dinner was over and the dishes had been done and all of them had retired to the little living room to sit beside the fire – for even in the spring, it was cold in Seafarthing – Dot found herself perched, as usual, at the edge of the room.
‘What happens,’ asked Florence, ‘if I’m mid-push and the lights go out? The midwife said the hospital would sort the electric, but knowing my luck, the next outage will happen right as the little one is bursting into the world.’
Willard laughed and his mother sipped her port and lemon, a knowing smile on her lips. ‘You’ll have to keep pushing, love,’ said Martha. ‘You’ll have little choice otherwise.’
Across the room, Celia was curled up next to her father while he read her school essay.
‘Absolutely brilliant,’ Patrick said. ‘You’re right, the authorwasforeshadowing the great flood with the reference to the ostriches. Now, about this semicolon . . .’
Dot watched the family tableau as if she were a strange and entirely separate organism.
‘Here you are, Dot.’ Archie handed her a cup of Eyreish tea. ‘You alright? Not like you to be late to dinner.’
Dot shrugged. Archie seemed, for a moment, as if he were about to pry but decided against it. For this, she loved him all the more. If he had asked, she would have told him about the carpet bag beneath her bed, which had been half-packed for a year or more, about the waves of panic that kept her awake until sunrise, about the dropped plates at the Divers’ Café and the crying in the storeroom and about how terribly miserable her life felt because there was only one thing in the world she wanted and she could not have it.
She saw herself swept along with the rest of her family. There sat Florence, who had grown up a few houses down on Lamprey Road, now about to give birth to the first of five, perhaps, six children. There was Willard, with no interest in working anywhere besides the trout cannery. Celia, who would someday marry one of the boys from her class. Her father, who had never left Seafarthing. Her mother, whose only joy was the amber liquid in her glass. Dot played the role of the middle child – ill, disappointing, and less remarkable than the children born before and after her.
‘I’ve been working with a couple of spirits,’ said Archie, interrupting her thoughts.
Dot rubbed her eyes. ‘Spirits?’ she asked. ‘Really?’
‘They’re as common as anything once you’re closer to the city.’ He took a drink of his tea. ‘The spirits think the South Sea cuttlefish migrateclockwisearound the archipelago near the South Pole. It’ll be a big trip. Six months, I’d say, at least. We’ve a crew for it, and it’ll be cold. Very cold. Wool socks, three pairs at a time.’ He paused. ‘We might have room for one more, if you’d like?’
Dot gawked.
Then, a slow grin spread across her face.
But her grandfather’s words were heard by the rest of Dot’s family and the fleeting dream was dashed against the cliffs.
‘Absolutely not.’
‘She can’t go on afishing trawler.’
‘Grandad,’ said Willard, ‘that is a ridiculous idea. Look at her. She’s like one of those little dogs who faint when they get excited. She’s about to faint right now.’
‘I am not,’ said Dot, clutching onto the wall beside her.
Willard looked upon Dot with absolute disdain.
‘You seem like you might,’ said Celia. ‘You’ve gone quite pale.’
‘Shush, Cece,’ said Patrick, standing. ‘Dad, I know you mean well, but you can’t get carried away on an idea like this without first discussing it with us. Dottie’s health isn’t up to it. Surely you can see this is beyond her?’
Dot opened her mouth to argue but her father fixed her with a stare. She shrank.
Her grandfather shrugged. ‘I think it should be up to Dorothy.’
‘She’s too much like you.’ Martha gave a sigh. ‘She’ll go even if she knows she shouldn’t, and she’ll collapse right off the side of the bloody boat. I’m sorry, Dot. We need to be realistic.’
‘Martha—’
‘Don’t you start, Archie,’ said Martha. ‘I let her go to the university, didn’t I? I let her get that job at the café? She has everything she needs.’
‘We’ve done so much for you, Dot,’ her father said. His words tightened around her throat. ‘You should be grateful.’
Dot opened her mouth to respond, but no words came. Her ears felt as if they were filling with water. Her breathing quickened. The room turned hot and started to spin. She saw herself turning into her father, middle-aged, grumpy and trapped forever in this cottage.
