THE RAINSFORD

He had got this far.

Now, the tumult of the Plymouth wharves surrounded Ross and he was jostled for’ard and jostled aft, not knowing which way he was heading, but driven along by the great tide of commerce, incoming and outgoing, which was both the pride of a maritime nation and a living manifestation of her mercantile heart.

On every face – whether fishmonger or costermonger, carpenter or sail-maker, quayside drab or Jack Tar – he saw the animation of purpose. Everybody, it seemed to him, appeared convinced of the importance of the expeditious moment, their hearts bursting with anxious fervour for whatever small errand or mundane task drove them on. In Bath, by contrast, Ross mused, people walked about the city at a slow pace, with, on their faces, an expression of mild vacancy, as though they thought of themselves primarily as models for their clothes, or as if they were slightly surprised to find themselves there at all.

He stopped at a stall selling oranges, bought a single fruit and asked to be directed to the Harbourmaster’s office. The orange-seller was a plump and kindly-seeming woman of fifty. Of the Harbourmaster she said: ‘You be wary of his temper, Sir. He’s much prone to apoplexy!’

‘Thank you for telling me,’ said Ross, ‘but why should this be so?’

‘Lord above knows! They say he suffers from colic. And he’s too much pestered – by the likes of you, asking questions and more questions. I suppose you’re looking to get aboard a ship, are you?’

‘I’m trying to join my brother,’ he said, ‘beyond Singapore.’

‘Beyond Singapore? The antipodes, you mean?’

‘The islands of Malaya.’

‘Oh. Well you won’t find a ship in Plymouth going there. His Excellency the Apoplex will laugh you out of the room!’

‘I know. I will have to disembark at Singapore and find some other, native craft to take me to Borneo.’

‘Heavens alive, Sir! Know you how that is to be done?’

‘By asking about, I presume.’

‘Not at all. Asking about will bring derision upon you, if that is all you propose to do. Take silver in your purse and be prepared to spend it.’

Ross thanked the orange-seller for her ‘excellent advice’ and made his way to the Harbourmaster’s office, a grand building which fronted the quays and from which the Apoplex could survey the tide of commerce beneath him and the waves which broke so dangerously near its feet.

The man was standing, his shoulders hunched over a heavy ledger on a tall desk. He didn’t turn round when Ross was brought in by the clerk, but continued with his work, as though the interruption hadn’t happened. Only when Ross announced himself again as ‘Doctor Ross’ did the Harbourmaster put down his pen and say, ‘Medical doctor, or academic pretender?’

‘Medical, Sir,’ said Ross.

‘Right then, state your business. Then you can examine my piles. See how I must work – standing up? My knees ache and my ankles swell, but I can’t sit down on my bottom on account of the cursed haemorrhoids.’