On the far bank they found a lodging house so close to the quayside you could, without much risk, leap from an upstairs window and catch hold of the yardarm of a ship. The place was Calley’s choice—all were Calley’s choice—though it seemed to Medina he had simply walked up the steps on impulse. Beside the house was a shop selling wines and spirits, a light in an alcove above its door like a wayside shrine. Medina decided he would go there later and buy enough wine to get drunk. He thought he still had the money for that, just. Two bottles of northern wine. Drink one fast, then find somewhere private to lean, drink the other slowly.

They stabled the horses and went up the stairs of the house behind a man carrying a fish-oil lantern, its orange glow creeping up the walls with them as they climbed. On the fourth floor he opened a door and led them into a room. He said they had a view of the river though when Medina went to the window there was no river in sight, only what appeared to be a garden or perhaps a small burying ground that had come adrift from its chapel.

“You know a place called Dumbarton?” said Calley. He repeated the question four times before the man understood him.

Dumbarton! Of course he knew Dumbarton.

“Far, is it?”

“Far? No.”

“So how do you get there?”

The man pointed to the window. “You go doon the water.”

“And what about a man called Browne. Lives there. A sea captain.”

“Browne?” said the man. “Browne of Dumbarton?” He bared his teeth; he was thinking, perhaps passing the residents of Dumbarton, one by one, before his inner gaze. He shook his head. “Someone will know him.”

“All right,” said Calley.

The man looked at them both. “Are you two Swedish?” he asked.

“No,” said Calley.

“Yes,” said Medina.

The man seemed satisfied with this. He left them the lamp and went out.

15

As they crossed the water he told her stories from his journey on the cattle boat. He left out the full extent of his intoxication, his despair. He recast the whole as a comedy, much as he had hoped to recast the war for Lucy. This time, however—the material being more promising—he was successful. Emily laughed, open-mouthed, and his stories and her laughter gave to the journey the character of a pleasure-trip, a cruise, weightless.

There was just enough wind to fill a sail and more of it as they moved further into the channel. After the heat on the island it felt fresh. Now and then licks of cold water broke on to the deck and startled them.