02 January 2025
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Read James McCreet's suggested rewrite for the piece critiqued in Under the Microscope
MCCREDITED
The elderly tramp steamer Gudrun B ran in on the darkened coast of Cornwall, her blue-and-yellow Swedish ensign twitching taut to starboard in the stiff westerly. As she came under the lee of the land, the seas moderated abruptly. The flag flapped then streamed aft. A hint of grey in the east heralded the approach of a new day.
It had been a rough passage. Swaying easily to the roll, Zelda Lang held the gunwale lightly. Just as well I’m a good sailor; being seasick all the way from Lisbon would have been a nightmare. The bare thought of retching with a broken rib made her wince. A week after the event, it was still sore to the touch. A bump or a stumble could yet jolt agony. At least she could see with both eyes now, although the left one was a dark palette of grey and green and yellow, the white still bloodshot, the scab on the cheekbone an itchy lump. The loose tooth, too, seemed to have firmed up again in its socket. But her hand . . . She had rid herself of the sling after a day at sea. Even with her hand still useless, she needed to have the arm free to help her balance on the lurching vessel.
She could forgive the Vichy police the rib, the tooth and the black eye – they would pass – but two fingers broken by the Sicherheitsdienst, and, worse, a cracked joint . . . Would she be able to play again? A life without playing would be a devastating blow. It had been too long as it was. She had not touched a piano since the previous June and it was almost two years since she had played a violin. At least she could still sing.