It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms. ‘But—’ ‘Nothing at all for you to worry your head over,’ said the captain, moving to try and usher her forth. He noticed the two chairs close together. They shouted to her from the wings to come off. “Once or twice. The Dawn Pearl. ” “You came to tell me this?” “I came for you,” he declared fiercely. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless.
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