A Stone's Throw (6 page)

But it was Mr Richardson she had to look out for. He was like a wolf and he knew she was hiding something. If she wasn’t careful, he’d have her by the scruff and shake her till she dropped it. So she cultivated other acquaintances, sitting beside Reverend Lindsell while he taught her gin rummy, and listening to Miss Lindsell’s stories of adventures in the Holy Lands, travelling with her brother.

‘You’re so lucky to be engaged,’ Miss Lindsell said. She knitted, as she spoke, with great application.

‘Mrs Gilmer used to say that knitting calmed the soul,’ Meg said.

Miss Lindsell nodded. ‘Very wise, and true for those of us who need to calm our souls. Old maids like me. But you’ll be wed in a week. There’s time enough for you to knit later.’

Meg looked at her lap. George would be so at ease in here, with the cigars and the taking of tea. She should school herself to it because very soon she would marry him, and she’d be willing to bet that she’d learn to knit sooner than Miss Lindsell thought. She’d bear his children and keep his house, and her life would be ordered and safe. No one would rush from the table in horror, or leave the house with no breakfast, or get lost.

But her new, fledgling self, the one that had wrestled with
Jim Cooper on the cabin floor, didn’t care a fig about knitting, or safety. That new Meg wanted to stand in the middle of the lounge and laugh out loud.

On the eighth day Meg came to lunch to find a small crowd gathered around the Richardsons’ table and Mr Richardson holding forth.

‘It’ll be given out later today; we’re out of U-boat range,’ Mr Richardson was saying, clipped and sure.

‘How do you know?’ Miss Lindsell said.

‘Right place at the right time,’ Mr Richardson said. ‘I heard it from the horse’s mouth.’

There was a flurry of clapping and he went on. ‘We are beyond reach. Beyond their fuelling range. If you don’t believe me, look out of the window. Our escort has turned back and we are now officially on a pleasure cruise.’

People looked out of the window and there was laughter and more clapping. Meg watched Mrs Richardson lean across and kiss her husband. The stewards brought in trays of champagne.

‘Listening at other people’s doors,’ Meg muttered.

‘We don’t have to carry our lifejackets with us any longer,’ Miss Lindsell said, handing Meg a glass. ‘Champagne, courtesy of the Richardsons.’

‘You wouldn’t know there was a war, on this ship, except for all those soldiers up in the front,’ Meg said.

‘Your fiancé will be anxious, waiting for you. A shame you can’t let him know you’re safe,’ said Miss Lindsell.

‘Yes,’ Meg said. ‘It’s a shame.’

She saw George ahead of her, pacing to and fro in the desert and checking on his watch – he was always checking on his watch – and a man on a horse galloping towards him with a note in his hand.

‘If we are still in Cape Town, might I come to the wedding?’

‘Yes,’ Meg said. ‘Of course.’

There was a party atmosphere on the ship that evening. A toast was made to the captain and officers and someone sang a ditty about devils and deep blue seas. Meg sat at the Richardsons’ table once again. She had little appetite for the jollity, but she smiled and laughed nevertheless. Mr Richardson was the life and soul. He behaved as though he were somehow responsible for the ship’s newfound safety. Meg caught him watching her now and then, but she had put on her plainest dress and forsworn the Yardleys. He had nothing to fault her with.

‘You seem better,’ Mrs Richardson said. She nodded towards her husband. ‘He does mean well. He’s just protective.’

Meg nodded too, then frowned. ‘I don’t need his protection,’ she said, but she caught Mrs Richardson’s expression and checked herself from saying more.

Later Meg walked alone outside. The moon was full and when the clouds parted, the ship was bathed in silver. The air had a foreign warmth and she took off her cardigan to feel the wind on her arms. She leaned against the rail and looked out to the horizon. The ship seemed so still in the sea, as though it too was suspended between one life and another. She wanted
someone else to stand here with her; someone else to drink the air and wonder. She shut her eyes and though she knew he wouldn’t be there, she couldn’t stop a tiny hope.

‘Jim Cooper,’ she said to herself and again, louder: ‘Jim Cooper.’

But soon she would be safe and married, and he would be gone.

10.30 pm
.

Dear Ma
,

There’s been a party tonight because we’re safe at last. Mr R tells us it’s definite because we’re beyond the 600-mile point. He overheard the captain say so. He says the U-boats can’t get this far, because they haven’t got enough fuel
.

So I’m going to wear only my pyjamas in bed tonight. Phew, because it was getting rather hot with everything else on top
.

In 8 days’ time we’ll be there. Then this letter can start its journey back to you. It’s the longest one I’ve ever written and by the time you get it, I’ll have been a married woman for at least a month. I can’t imagine it
.

She put the letter and pencil down beside the bunk, tucked her covers close around her and closed her eyes. The cabin was warm and a little airless and Meg felt secure. Although she hadn’t felt sleepy, she was asleep in minutes.

She was dreaming, watching Errol Flynn kiss Olivia de Havilland, with George beside her upstairs in the Embassy. He had a bag of penny toffees and his hand was on her knee. The kiss went on and on until a ‘boom’ noise made the two lovers stop; then they got on to a motor bus, but couldn’t find the fare and the conductor asked them to get off. But the strangest part of the dream, the part Meg never mentioned later, was that while George sat on one side of her, Jim sat on the other. She watched the two lovers kiss and Jim leaned towards her and whispered: ‘Come with me,’ and she turned, but it wasn’t Jim any more. It was Will. Will smiling into the sun that shone from somewhere and beckoning to her.

Meg woke. Something had happened. She listened. Perhaps it was in her dream and she began to drift to sleep again. But then she heard it. Not a noise, but the absence of one. The ship’s bass note – the deep ‘dub, dub’ throb – was gone. The engine had stopped. She opened her eyes. A flickering blue light came under the door and set the room in shadows and the air was acrid with a smell she didn’t recognise. Somewhere close a bell was ringing, a shrill, insistent ‘thrang’ noise that went on and on.

In a single movement she was out of the bunk, wholly alert, clear-eyed. Something had happened, but she didn’t know what or when. She needed to dress quickly and get out of there. She tried the lights but they weren’t working. Moving round the shadows in the dark, she stumbled because the floor had tilted. Fumbling with the dresser drawers, she found a blouse and cardigan and pulled them on over her pyjamas,
then her coat and finally the life jacket. The acrid smell grew stronger by the minute and she was sure the floor had tilted further. Reaching under her pillow she felt for the snapshot of her mother. Then she opened the cabin door.

The corridor was empty and Meg would have run except that the air was so smoky, she could barely see an arm’s length ahead. She needed to find other people and for once she would have been happy to see even Mr Richardson. More by touch than by sight, she reached the stairs and climbed. Her mind was clear. She would not be left behind this time; she would not be left. At the top of the stairs the air was clearer. A sailor stood there and pointed her on towards the lounge.

‘We’ll be all set in a jiffy,’ he said.

‘But we’ve been hit?’ Meg said, confused by his tone.

He nodded.

‘Torpedoed. Number three hold, back in the stern. It’s a big gash.’

‘We’re sinking?’ Meg said.

‘Captain’s given the order to abandon ship. We’re readying the lifeboats. Best if you joined the others,’ the sailor said, pointing again.

As she crossed the lobby she thought of Jim Cooper and she kissed the air for him before putting her hand to the lounge door.

Meg stopped amazed in the open doorway. It was packed and she guessed she was the last to arrive, again. Candles stood slanted on every table, wax guttering down towards the sea; and the emergency lights sent out their blue glow, bathing the floor. People sat with bags and cases beside them and most
wore their life jackets. But nobody seemed to be panicking. In fact the room had an air of last-chance hilarity, as if people were determined to carry on whatever. Someone even played the piano and a woman even sang:

And you think you’re in the swim,

But the lights go dim,

And you’re out on the tiles,

But it’s raining in the aisles.

Oh my Honey Bee,

Oh my Fish in the Sea,

Hold tight and soon you’ll be through…

At one table people were playing blackjack, reaching around their life jackets to fish out their stakes. There was a group drinking at the bar and Mr Richardson was playing the barman, pouring out measures of gin and whisky, handing out the change. She saw him check his watch, and check it again thirty seconds later, as though the ship were sinking to a timetable.

She looked around. In one corner Reverend Boondock was leading a prayer. Mrs Richardson must be here too, but she couldn’t see her and for a moment she panicked. Surely he couldn’t have left his wife in the cabin? But then she saw her, sitting at the end of a sofa at the far side with a pair of older ladies. Meg walked towards them. One of the ladies appeared to have put on all her jewellery, a thick string of pearls riding over the top of her life jacket and her arms jangling with gold. The other held her handbag in both hands, and Meg noticed that every so often
she would stroke it, as if it were a pet in need of reassurance.

‘The smell,’ the pearl woman said. ‘I know the smell.’

‘They’ll have radioed it by now,’ the other said. ‘We should be picked up very quickly.’

They, at least, weren’t pretending.

Meg knelt down beside Mrs Richardson. She didn’t have her life jacket. Meg saw she was shaking, clutching and reclutching her hands in her lap. Meg touched her.

‘It’ll be all right,’ she said quietly. ‘But your life jacket?’

‘I’m a good swimmer,’ Mrs Richardson said.

‘Smells like the air raids,’ the pearl woman said. ‘Cordite. Sticks in your throat.’

‘They’ll rescue us,’ Meg said.

‘It’s horrible,’ the pearl woman said.

‘I need a drink.’ Mrs Richardson grabbed at Meg’s hand. ‘Get me a drink.’

Meg had to jostle a bit to get to the front of the bar. She’d never done this before; girls didn’t, and if George could have seen her he’d have been cross. But it was an emergency and she put her hands on the counter and leaned in.

‘Gin and tonic for your wife,’ she said loudly.

She waited for Mr Richardson to turn towards her, to meet her eye.

‘Damned thing, this,’ he said to his listeners with an expansive gesture. ‘Going to mess up my article deadlines.’

‘Excuse me,’ Meg said.

‘Though I’ve got a fairly watertight excuse,’ and he paused for a laugh at his joke. ‘Sorry it’s late. Got torpedoed.’

Sharp laughter bellied out around Meg.

‘Your wife needs a drink,’ she said, more loudly.

He acknowledged her then with a slight tip of the head and reached for the gin.

‘Ice and lemon?’

‘She’s very frightened,’ Meg said.

‘Actually we’re low on the ice.’

‘Despite what you told us last night, the ship is sinking, and your wife needs you,’ Meg said.

‘Tell her I’ll be over shortly.’

‘She needs you now, and she needs her life jacket.’ Meg turned away in such a fury that it took all her self-command not to hurl the drink in his face.

The ship had listed further in the last few minutes and now at last people had given up the performance of normality. They were picking up their bags; the blackjack game was abandoned and all at once even the bar was deserted.

Meg handed Mrs Richardson the glass.

‘He’ll be over in a moment,’ she said.

She drank it down like water.

‘Dutch courage,’ she said. But she’d taken Meg’s hand again and was gripping it even tighter.

Several of the ship’s officers had come in and one looked to be issuing orders.

‘Look,’ Meg said. ‘They’ll have us in the lifeboats any time now.’

As if he had heard her, the officer addressed the passengers then.

‘Please make your way to the deck, and go straight to your allocated lifeboat. We’ll be lowering them immediately.’

Mr Richardson strode towards them and Meg prised her hand free.

‘I must go,’ she said. And as she turned away: ‘I’ll see you in Cape Town.’

Meg felt calm, stepping out onto the deck. She had on her life jacket and she was well drilled in what to do. Most importantly, she was on her own. And she knew how to be on her own. Nobody was holding her hand. In her pocket was her mother’s photo, and she could see her now, standing at the kitchen window. That was how Meg always thought of her: looking away, looking out of that window.

The ship was lit in black and white by the moon and though the engines had died, it was still moving forward. Up here the smoke was thicker, gusting across the deck so that one minute you could see around you and the next you were lost. Groans rose from the ship’s heart as if it were a great beast dreadfully wounded: echoing wrenching sounds. Sailors with torches moved around calmly, shouting instructions, and clumps of people waited patiently, their fear only visible in the way they gripped their bags, or drummed their fingers, or looked about, as if there might be some other place to go to, some way out of this.

Several lifeboats were already lowered to deck level, and small crowds were clustered at the rail. But with the ship at an angle, the boats were swinging out over the sea and nobody
could board them. Meg watched the sailors lean out over the black ocean with boat hooks, hooking them round the falls to try and pull the lifeboats in. Miss Lindsell was there, handbag on one arm. She waved to Meg, quite as though they had passed on the street. She had her arm around someone’s shoulder, and while Meg watched she clipped open her handbag and took out smelling salts.