‘Bass’s Clef?’

He laughed, and I thought how easy it was to poke holes in this patrician exterior of his. We both looked at the chart and at the pattern of our plans. Then, without warning, my pleasure darkened and vanished.

‘Doctor Gideon,’ I said, ‘the spiral can only curl inwardly.’

‘Yes, in a fixed rotation that corresponds to an infinitely recurring pattern.’

Inward and inward, coiled upon itself and eternally tightening. It came upon me so suddenly, like the rushing water of a new tide: a desperate urge to leave the room, cancel the voyage, and drag my recalcitrant father off the cold carcass of his vengeance.

‘But doctor, how will we get home?’

~

As the Moonbird ploughed on down the coast, each of us found our routines. So generous were her proportions that the usual complaints about cramping and stench did not apply: she rode comfortably over the swell as we made a south-westerly line towards Bass’s Strait.

The Connolly brothers drank at the pace one might expect from two lags with a maritime history, but only within the bounds set for them by Argyle. That tenderness and volatility with each other: I’d watched Angus reef a line at lightning speed through a sheave block so Declan fell off a yardarm above him, then roll about laughing as his brother tried to thrash him with a cane batten from the jib. But they were scrupulous in doing everything Argyle asked of them, their combustibility held in the tenuous control of a sad man in a frock.

A moderate master, compliant crew. I thanked God for both these mercies. Argyle set them sail orders, kept them to a roster of cleaning tasks and turned them to any heavy work that might spare the rest of us. Pulling nets and pots and traps for Dr Gideon, guiding my father if he moved up or down between decks; Argyle was able to command them with an impeccable minimum of speech. He would place himself, whether consciously or not, at a higher point on the deck and speak slowly and clearly, once. When there was evidence of incomprehension he would simply stare, and Angus would wait for Declan’s interpretation before the two of them did it their own way.

The empire-line was replaced the following day by a simpler linen dress. By late morning the master’s upper arms were becoming pink with sunburn, but the dress was a practical choice given the heat of the day. It was shapeless and plain, but he’d combined it with tortoiseshell combs that kept his wavy hair back and revealed his face to be younger than I’d thought. He stood most of the time at the helm, not intervening in the boat’s motion but watching the coastline off our starboard side and the wind scuffing the surface ahead of us in the south-east.