Chapter 69

Chapter 69

Violet

Scattered Orchids

She wonders if it is God or her father watching over her when she is called to one of the last lifeboats simply because she speaks Spanish. They need someone to help those who are struggling to understand English.

She hands the passengers into the swaying boat, but in truth, she needs their hands to steady her on the tilting deck as much as they need hers to guide them. There is a delicate, cool, scented hand, a plump hand that clutches hers too tightly, a manicured masculine hand that pulls away from her as if scalded by the shame of needing assistance– or maybe he knows he should be giving way to others. In among them is a firmer, broader hand, more calloused than the rest. And for a moment she thinks it is her father's hand in hers, guiding her. When she looks to see who it belongs to, there is nothing but the backs of dark wool overcoats and the merging of fur wraps and worsted stoles.

When at last she joins the lifeboat, they hang suspended alongside the ship and she is caught between a world of warmth and light, and a world of chilling blackness. Despite the push and the shove of it, the warm world is yet enticing. She recalls the Olympic , The Purser's assurance that the watertight doors would hold firm. The deep, still blackness holds no assurances– no moon to bring comfort, just high above, the brilliant, unblinking stare of thousands of indifferent stars.

She wraps the eiderdown she has borrowed off a stateroom bed more tightly around her. Her friend the second-class steward found her in her cabin and urged her to dress in her warmest clothes. Only as his normally respectful hands plucked garments from her wardrobe did she finally register his fear. When he brought forth her sweet pea hat from the cupboard, she took it gently from his grasp, telling him that it was not the hat to wear to a shipwreck.

He held her hands for a long moment and said softly, ‘You must wrap up warm.' In that whisper, she heard her mother, the woman who is always right.

With her mother's voice chivvying in her head, she made a detour into one of the staterooms. She thought how strange it was that she should be able to have her pick of these. All the doors were open, and clothes, shoes, cases, flowers, even jewels lay scattered on the carpet beneath her lurching feet. She stepped over a scattering of orchids and plucked an eiderdown from the bed. With no winter coat, she hoped no one would begrudge her this.

Now, suspended in the lifeboat between the contrast of light and dark, she imperceptibly leans towards the comfort of the light. A woman next to her rises and, shaking free of her companion, scrambles out of the boat– the light has won. The woman is swallowed by the swarm of bodies that swirl on deck. There are cries and shouts but there is also laughter. She thinks of the young men. She wonders if they had another nightcap; perhaps they think it will give them protection against the cold.

She feels the lifeboat sway beneath her. This way? That way? Then she sees the steward of the sweet pea hat rush by, and she remembers the persistent pressure of his hands. He is followed by The Purser.

She has never seen The Purser Priest run before.

And it is then that she knows she must stay where her father's hand led her.

The winch beside them screeches, and a young engineer pushes them away from the side, shouting instructions to those behind him. Another figure appears close to her left shoulder; her head is now level with his knees. He reaches down– he clearly knows her, but she cannot see his face, and afterwards can never recall his name.

‘Here, you, Miss Jessop, take care of this.'

The urgency of his voice causes her to stretch her arms upwards. Into these he half pushes, half drops a bundle wrapped in a blanket. Instinctively she clutches it to her. She hopes he hasn't stolen something from the scattered possessions and that she will be taken up as a thief.

As she pulls back the edge of the blanket she feels the lifeboat start to drop.