The water sprays salted rage against my weathered skin like sandpaper being dragged over rind. I swallow the pain, washing it down with the taste of brine. Cargo thrashes against its lashings, smashing against the oaken hull. Splintered wood cracks - a pale imitation of the thunderclaps overhead. It warns me to take cover. Rats flee downwards or are dragged into the drink with flooding water. Their squeaks and scurrying are lost somewhere beneath the chaos – drowned out by the crashing of barrels and casks. I clutch the stairs and climb. Behind me, the bilge is a stew of water, blood, and broken bodies. Reaching the deck exposes me to the elements, and a gust hits me like a cannon, driving me to my knees. I anchor myself to the mainmast with a rope and raise a hand to shield against the worst of the rain. I watch as men run around, wide-eyed and screaming instructions, only for their cries to be stolen from the air and cast overboard. Others try to communicate through perilous gestures lost in the galleon’s violent roll. My stomach lurches as the ship surges upwards, ploughing through the crest with a battered groan that rumbles through the deck beneath my knees. For a heartbeat, as the hull mounts the wave and levels out, the ship becomes weightless underneath nature’s fury, and the world stops. Silence.

Clarity. Anne Boleyn. What?

A finger of steam rises to my nostrils, carrying with it the smell of a sweet, floral tea. In the background, the radio plays an old Smiths song. I take a deep breath and envelop the cup between my hands - it's like an electric blanket in winter. The bottom of the mug raps rhythmically against the oaken table with a dull thud. I trace the liver spots on my hands, absentminded, listening to the mechanical click of the clock as each second passes me by.

“Brekky, love?” comes a woman’s voice from behind, soft as silk.

She rests a hand on my shoulder and kisses me on the cheek. I take in the scent of her moisturiser and it is a haven of familiarity and comfort and family and home and safety and I love her. She glides past me towards the sink and fills the kettle; her unadorned feet pattering on the black and white tiles. The radio announces the next song. She places a red chopping board onto the pristine white counter and chops while singing. Off to the side, bacon and sausages sizzle in a pan, and eggs wait patiently on the countertop. I watch her without words, basking in the calm of her melodic presence. My hands throb in protest against the mug's heat, and I release it from my grasp. The porcelain is bone white, with a beige oval portrait centred opposite the handle. Inside the oval is a woman in the bloom of her adulthood, her shoulders bare, face as pale as the china on which her portrait sat. She offers the hint of a smile. On her head rests a gable hood, ornately arranged with jewels of all colours from all corners of the world. Beneath the portrait, in gilded, flowing letters, reads Anne of Cleves.

My stomach rumbles, and I move the cup to the side in anticipation of breakfast. I notice, for the first time, in the middle of the rectangular table sit three items – how didn’t I notice them? The first was a photo of myself as a teenager with my parents, both dressed in dapper tweed befitting their serious and scholarly personalities. My vision blurs, and I blink. Tears fall into the teacup.

Another song comes on the radio.

I was five, and he was six.

We rode on horses made of sticks. 

The second item is a model galleon that sits on a dais of kitchen mats, proud as a swan.

He wore black and I wore white. 

A two-foot oak hull of cured wood, hand-varnished. It has three masts and full rigging with ivory sails. Twelve brass cannons peek proudly from the lower deck. Rope and rails, captain’s wheel, all carved. My pride and joy.

He would always win the fight. 

The third photo shows our family, my wife and I, middle-aged, and our little girl, Kelly. We’re at the park, I have my arms wrapped around her from behind as she sits on my lap, her brown coat and face muddy from frolicking in the dirt. Her tongue is sticking out, and behind her eyes lies mischief.

Bang bang, he shot me down.

Tears fill my eyes again. The world blurs into watercolours. 

“Where is Kelly?” I ask, too quietly to be heard over the music.

I reach out for the photo. 

Bang bang, I hit the ground.

Anne of Cleves falls, and everything shatters. 

Bang Bang, that awful sound. 

The sky is grey and threatens rain. I am on Market Street opposite a Woolworths, browsing the goods laid out by stall owners, from exotic fruits to homemade trinkets. Kelly protests in my hand at how long it’s taking, but first, I had to find a gift for my wife’s birthday. People go about their business with quick steps and blurred faces, dressed in layers of muted clothing. I meander past a stall selling knock-off football kits and move to the next. 

An elderly woman smiles at me. “What’re you after, darling?” she asks, pointing her cane at the selection of goods on offer.

I spend the next few minutes browsing, occasionally stopping to soothe Kelly’s cries. I shift several items to see what lies underneath, and my eyes are immediately drawn to a set of porcelain white cups. I turn to show Kelly.

“Look,” I hold the plastic box aloft. “A set of six teacups, each one with the name and portrait of Henry VIII’s wives. “Your mum will love it! She’s a history buff”. I present one for show and tell. “Catherine of Aragon” I grin.

She stares up at me, unimpressed. I spend the next few minutes haggling with the seller until we reach an agreement. A deluge, or maybe it was a clear sky? accompanies us on our return - but it does nothing to dampen my spirits. Each step takes me closer to home.

Kelly tugs at my arm, and a soft voice fills the world around me. “Daddy? Daddy?”

“Danny?” A hand caresses my cheek, and it soothes me. 

I trace her arm with my hand, fingers following the aging grooves on her skin. Broken pottery is strewn across the floor, tiny pieces of porcelain coruscating in the morning sun. She kneels and stares up at me with glistening eyes, like dwindling starlight reflecting on the surface of a calm ocean. A lump catches in my throat.

I bury my head in her shoulder, repeating through muffled cries, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Her nails scratch lightly at the nape of my neck for several moments before she pulls away.  “You have nothing to be sorry for, my darling”.  She puts the sweeping brush to one side and cups my face in her hands. “In sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.”

Her smile is weak, but I do not see a smile. I see a lament.

“Now, how about that breakfast?” she asks, standing up.

I nod, but before she can turn, I ask “Where’s Kelly?”

The sorrow on her face is replaced with surprise. 

“What do you mean?” she asks

I snap back “Kelly. Our daughter, where is she?”

“Oh,” she replies quietly before reaching across the table for one of the photos, which she places in front of me. “That’s Kelly. You’re misremembering, love. We don’t have children.”

The photo catches me off guard. I’m there, sure, but my arms are wrapped around a golden retriever perched on my lap. Her brown coat streaked with mud, her tongue lolling to the side. An opaque mist clouds my senses. The world feels underwater.

Everything sounds dull and distant.

Hearing my name is like a lighthouse in the storm.

“Everything okay, Danny?” 

I’m not sure it is, but I nod, reaching for the photo. I hold it up, my face splitting with a grin. 

“I have a dog like this one. Kelly, she’s called.”

She smiles wearily, rivulets of tears cascading down her cheeks.

“You did, my love.”