‘Yeah, looks like it,’ Alistair says, grabbing some serviettes off the bar and handing them to her.
‘It’s just feels like something has come together. I can’t explain it more than that.’
‘Look, we don’t know that much about her yet. But she did survive– she wasn’t drowned. Come on, cheer up. Surely that’s got to be worth another cocktail?’
When they eventually leave the bar, Jan presents Emma with a cocktail menu. He has written his number on the back.
She puts it in her bag, not because she has any intention of ringing him, but because it is always nice to be asked.
Chapter 53
Violet
Crumpled Daisy
She is leaning over the rail, along with most of the passengers and many of the crew. They are heading in a straight course away from Southampton and out to sea, but no one is studying the dappled horizon; all are focused on the British warship drawing closer and yet closer, as if an all-prevailing undertow is dragging it towards theOlympic’s bow.
Can’t the warship steer away? Have they lost control?
The sudden turning of theOlympicthat tipped her off balance earlier, must have been their attempt to avoid a collision, but it doesn’t seem to have been enough.
She hears the intake of breath around her like a theatre audience gasping in unison.
And then the warship rams them.
The grinding and screeching reverberates through the air and through her. The crowd exhales and their screams and cries infiltrate the metallic cacophony, creating a far more frightening living sound. They surge with the shuddering of the ship, and there is a second crippling groan of metal.
Out of the corner of her eye she sees people stumble and watches her friend who works in second class crumple on the deck. The next instant, a large man in a fur-collared coat crashes against her, taking her feet from under her. Her mind acknowledges the inevitable even while feet and arms flail.
Then her elbow is clutched in a firm grip. The Purser has caught her.
The Purser is close to forty and holds himself like a captain. He is the kind of man who makes you feel safe. For an instant, it reminds her of her father, and of how he used to catch her when she stumbled as a little girl.
He places her hands back on the rail and they both look down at the devastated hull of the warship and the yawning gash that has been torn in their own hull.
‘Now then. Nothing to worry about,’ The Purser declares.
She is not sure if she has thrown him a look of disbelief. She wonders if she dares. But he adds, ‘This is the safest ship ever built– watertight doors in each section will be closed by now. There is no fear of sinking.’ He looks towards the warship, which is in far worse shape than they are, figures swarming on deck. He averts his eyes. ‘Built to last, designed by the best engineers in the world.’ He is not talking about the warship: The Purser is a White Star Line man through and through.
She wonders if The Purser, like her, prayed to God the moment the great crash came. She thinks how lucky the White Star Line are to have The Purser Priest on their side.
He is proved right. No one is hurt; two watertight doors closed fast and saved them all. Everyone proclaims that it was a miracle no passengers were in their cabins when HMSHawketore a hole through the walls, crushing furniture and panelling like matchsticks.
It is of no note that a stewardess left one of those cabins only minutes before the collision– but she remembers the red-headed steward with bandy legs in her prayers.
Chapter 54
Emma
Hollyhocks
The walk up the hill to the field, plus a large mug of strong coffee has made little impression on her hangover. She descends to the garden, wondering if a bacon sandwich might help. She is meeting Betty, Les and Tamas at one o’clock, and she doesn’t want to be feeling like this when she sees them.
And how is she feeling? The nagging thought sits behind her headache, a question that has been there before and has nothing to do with the number of cocktails she drank last night.
Her headache is now coming in waves. She wonders if she is ‘going down with something’. She repeats this in her head the way Granny Maria would have said it, a reassuring voice keeping greater concerns at bay– worries about serious illness that worm their way in. Since Will’s death, these are more frequent visitors. She pushes against the panic. Everyone tells you that grief is exhausting.
Anyway, this morning isn’t a day for dwelling on headaches; the sun is shining and her garden is, quite frankly, looking good. The honeysuckle is beginning to wrap green tendrils around the top of the new arch she has installed by the back door, and the hollyhocks, either side of it, are standing tall and proud– no flowers yet, but there are buds of cherry and peach tucked in between the broad, green leaves. She walks to the back door, the lavender bushes that border the path like a series of rolling waves, washing her legs in scent as she passes.
