Chapter 53

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 the Olympic 's bow.

Can't the warship steer away? Have they lost control?

The sudden turning of the Olympic that 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 HMS Hawke tore 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.