Alone in that tiny, lightless space, different fears competed to take hold of me. On the one hand there was the existential terror engendered by seeing the image of one I loved filled with the substance of a stranger. On the other there were more fleshly concerns with regard to the kind of things that happen to nice young ladies locked up on pirate ships - the kind of adventures that might be thrilling to think about from the safety of a warm bedroom in Bloomsbury, but were an entirely different matter there and then.
I tried to remember all I could about Hook. As I recalled, he did act like a gentleman, horribly courteous and urbane. He was the first person to have ever treated me like a grown-up lady... and I loved it. I hated myself for loving it of course - for wanting anything to do with growing up, for wanting anything to do with bhim/b - but I couldn't stop it. I'd forgotten about that. In fact, now I remember making a conscious effort to forget about it - only to think about Peter, just as later I made myself forget about Peter and love only Tootles.
Tootles. I missed him now - my ringless finger felt lonely and forlorn. And I missed Peter. Where was he? I pictured him lying dead somewhere, with no-one to bury him. I pictured him alone in a dark cell, bound and forgotten, his light quite extinguished. I pictured him grown up. Walking to work with a briefcase and bowler hat, exchanging a word or two about the weather, settling down to do clever things with figures inscribed on pages, which were worth more now to him now than heaps of pirate gold.
And was it my fault? Did he hate me for marrying another husband, conceiving another child? How could I have thought of giving him less than all my love, whether he thanked me for it or not? Yet how could I think of giving Jane and Tootles less than all my love, when they are mine and only mine and thank me for it every day?
I was jolted out from melancholy to fear by the sound of voices. A party of pirates singing that song they always sang:
Avast, belay, yo-ho, heave-ho
A-pirating we go.
And if we're parted by a shot
We're sure to meet below.
I remembered the last time I heard it - the boys had all started singing the National Anthem to drown them out. How proud I had been...
Then there was light again, and voices, and hands pulling me out.
"There ye go Cap'n! A captive. I was a tellin' yer I'd get 'un for ye."
He stood before me, so tall that I felt like a little girl again. That coat would have looked ridiculous on anyone else: purple velvet trimmed with... No, not trimmed - there was nothing 'trim' about the extravagant curlicues of thick gold thread, or the shiny buttons, or the jewel-encrusted cuffs. On anyone else, you would have stared at it, bedazzled, but on him it drew you upwards towards the elegant aquiline nose, the strange eyes (intense yet delicate, somewhat like forget-me-nots); the luxuriant black curls. Or else downwards. To the hands, I mean. The hand. The strong left hand resting on cutlass. And the hook. Shining steel, stark and merciless - and yet there was perfection in the contours of its curve, even beauty (could I see a flash of gold filigree on the ebony cup that attached it to his mutilated wrist?) All his strength and all his weakness in ten inches of cold metal.
Our eyes met, and a twitch of his brows indicated... What? Consternation? Recognition? Attraction? But though he kept staring, he did not address me, at first.
"Boatswain Smee!" Proudly, the little Irishman stood to attention. "For what reason did you incarcerate this lady?"
"Reason, Cap'n?"
"Aye Smee, Reason. I realise it is not a concept with which you are overly familiar, hailing as you do from a land that considers the potato a suitable substitute for education, but I would have thought that the decades you have spent in my service might have given you a glancing acquaintance with the concept."
It almost broke my heart to see the pride fall from his face. "I'm waiting, Smee..."
"I... I don' know, Cap'n. You told me to get you a captive, an' she were just sittin' there. Mighty suspicious, I call it, sittin' around on beaches. I think she be... um..." then inspiration hit, "a spy! Ay, Cap'n, 'twas my way of thinking that..."
The Captain rolled those forget-me-not eyes, and turned his glare for the first time from me to the Boatswain, who reeled away, as though from a physical blow.
"Begone, Smee! Report to me tomorrow morning for punishment." And gone Smee was.
Slowly, the Captain turned to face me again. He bowed.
"Madam," he said, "my sincere apologies."
"Captain," I replied, "think nothing of it. And please do not punish your boatswain on my account - he was ever gentle towards me - more a rescuer than a captor." The boys-own antique dialect of Neverland rolled easily off my tongue.
"You are gentle," he said. I was not sure whether it was a criticism or a compliment. In any case, I inclined my head in acceptance.
"Naturally, I will provide you with an escort back to the beach whenever you desire it, but perhaps you would care to take a cup of tea with me first?"
I accepted before I knew what I was doing.
I tried to remember all I could about Hook. As I recalled, he did act like a gentleman, horribly courteous and urbane. He was the first person to have ever treated me like a grown-up lady... and I loved it. I hated myself for loving it of course - for wanting anything to do with growing up, for wanting anything to do with bhim/b - but I couldn't stop it. I'd forgotten about that. In fact, now I remember making a conscious effort to forget about it - only to think about Peter, just as later I made myself forget about Peter and love only Tootles.
Tootles. I missed him now - my ringless finger felt lonely and forlorn. And I missed Peter. Where was he? I pictured him lying dead somewhere, with no-one to bury him. I pictured him alone in a dark cell, bound and forgotten, his light quite extinguished. I pictured him grown up. Walking to work with a briefcase and bowler hat, exchanging a word or two about the weather, settling down to do clever things with figures inscribed on pages, which were worth more now to him now than heaps of pirate gold.
And was it my fault? Did he hate me for marrying another husband, conceiving another child? How could I have thought of giving him less than all my love, whether he thanked me for it or not? Yet how could I think of giving Jane and Tootles less than all my love, when they are mine and only mine and thank me for it every day?
I was jolted out from melancholy to fear by the sound of voices. A party of pirates singing that song they always sang:
Avast, belay, yo-ho, heave-ho
A-pirating we go.
And if we're parted by a shot
We're sure to meet below.
I remembered the last time I heard it - the boys had all started singing the National Anthem to drown them out. How proud I had been...
Then there was light again, and voices, and hands pulling me out.
"There ye go Cap'n! A captive. I was a tellin' yer I'd get 'un for ye."
He stood before me, so tall that I felt like a little girl again. That coat would have looked ridiculous on anyone else: purple velvet trimmed with... No, not trimmed - there was nothing 'trim' about the extravagant curlicues of thick gold thread, or the shiny buttons, or the jewel-encrusted cuffs. On anyone else, you would have stared at it, bedazzled, but on him it drew you upwards towards the elegant aquiline nose, the strange eyes (intense yet delicate, somewhat like forget-me-nots); the luxuriant black curls. Or else downwards. To the hands, I mean. The hand. The strong left hand resting on cutlass. And the hook. Shining steel, stark and merciless - and yet there was perfection in the contours of its curve, even beauty (could I see a flash of gold filigree on the ebony cup that attached it to his mutilated wrist?) All his strength and all his weakness in ten inches of cold metal.
Our eyes met, and a twitch of his brows indicated... What? Consternation? Recognition? Attraction? But though he kept staring, he did not address me, at first.
"Boatswain Smee!" Proudly, the little Irishman stood to attention. "For what reason did you incarcerate this lady?"
"Reason, Cap'n?"
"Aye Smee, Reason. I realise it is not a concept with which you are overly familiar, hailing as you do from a land that considers the potato a suitable substitute for education, but I would have thought that the decades you have spent in my service might have given you a glancing acquaintance with the concept."
It almost broke my heart to see the pride fall from his face. "I'm waiting, Smee..."
"I... I don' know, Cap'n. You told me to get you a captive, an' she were just sittin' there. Mighty suspicious, I call it, sittin' around on beaches. I think she be... um..." then inspiration hit, "a spy! Ay, Cap'n, 'twas my way of thinking that..."
The Captain rolled those forget-me-not eyes, and turned his glare for the first time from me to the Boatswain, who reeled away, as though from a physical blow.
"Begone, Smee! Report to me tomorrow morning for punishment." And gone Smee was.
Slowly, the Captain turned to face me again. He bowed.
"Madam," he said, "my sincere apologies."
"Captain," I replied, "think nothing of it. And please do not punish your boatswain on my account - he was ever gentle towards me - more a rescuer than a captor." The boys-own antique dialect of Neverland rolled easily off my tongue.
"You are gentle," he said. I was not sure whether it was a criticism or a compliment. In any case, I inclined my head in acceptance.
"Naturally, I will provide you with an escort back to the beach whenever you desire it, but perhaps you would care to take a cup of tea with me first?"
I accepted before I knew what I was doing.
