The Last Lifeboat, page 13
‘He’s called Jimmy,’ Alice corrects. ‘He’s a cook on the Carlisle.’
‘Jimmy to you. Captain Nemo to me.’ He waves the bottle of Scotch around. ‘Has to be neat, I’m afraid. Bartender is all out of ice.’
Alice glances toward the children, reluctant to drink in front of them. She twists around on the thwarts to face the other way.
The man fills the cap of the whisky bottle with a splash of amber liquid. ‘Tastes like shit, but it’ll warm you up. Knock it back.’
She tips her head back and drinks quickly, remembering how Kitty laughed when they first tried their father’s whisky. Now, as then, the sharp burn of alcohol makes her cough, but a welcome warmth spreads from her chest to her stomach.
She passes the bottle cap back to the man. ‘Thank you. I think.’
‘Owen Shaw,’ he says, jabbing his hand toward her.
‘Alice King,’ she replies. His grip is firm and cold. He is a man of stone.
Owen narrows his eyes as he studies her. ‘Let me guess. Teacher? Librarian?’
‘Both, actually.’
He nods. ‘Have that look about you. All earnest and twitchy. You’re one of the escorts. With the seavac kids, right?’
‘Yes. You?’
He fixes his gaze on hers, his face inscrutable. ‘Stowaway.’
Alice isn’t sure whether to believe him. What does it matter anyway? A stowaway or the ship’s captain, first class or third, they’re all the same now. ‘Stowing away from something, or toward something?’ she asks.
‘Is there a difference?’
‘If you’re stowing away from something, I presume you’re in trouble. If you’re stowing away toward something, I presume you’re in love.’
At this, he laughs. ‘A teacher of philosophy, I see.’ But he doesn’t answer the question. ‘Here. Take this.’ He passes his tweed cap to her.
‘You’ve already sacrificed your sweater.’
Owen drops it into her lap. ‘Give it to one of the kids, ’til we’re rescued at least.’
Too tired to argue, Alice wrings it out and puts it on Billy’s head. It offers him little protection from the rain, but the simple act of kindness, the quiet normality of the exchange amid such chaos, brings her great comfort.
She looks at a point straight ahead, partly to quell her familiar seasickness but mostly to watch for any signs of an approaching rescue ship. She tells the children to do the same, to shout as loud as they can if they see anything. But the hours pass and there is nothing to see but the endless ocean.
By mid-morning, the storm eases. There is a sudden industriousness, a sense of regaining control of a situation that was so desperate and chaotic through the night. Jimmy and the other crewmen from the Carlisle hoist the lifeboat’s sail. Containers are brought up from the emergency supplies beneath the thwarts, the items inside carefully counted and organized: tins of salmon, corned beef, condensed milk, pineapple; canisters of water; medical supplies; ship’s matches; bailing buckets. Alice’s mouth is paper dry. Arthur announces that he’s proper starving, and parched. Brian sits quietly, his knees tucked up to his chest. Billy, Robert and Hamish talk about what they’d most like for breakfast when they’re rescued and lick their lips at the prospect of sausages and bacon, fried eggs and slices of thick buttered toast, their eyes fixed firmly on the tins of food being organized. Molly retches into the bailing bucket Alice had given her in the night.
‘The seasickness will pass, Molly,’ she says, even though her own stomach heaves with the see-sawing motion of the lifeboat. ‘The sea is a bit calmer now. Try to keep your eyes on the horizon.’
The poor child is green. Alice wishes she had some ginger or barley sugars to give her, but all her remedies are in her cabin, and her cabin is now at the bottom of the ocean.
Nobody has eaten since dinner on the Carlisle the previous evening, the last of their three lavish meals of the day served on gilt-edged tableware by staff in crisp uniforms. How quickly they’d become accustomed to the luxury. Only yesterday, Beryl Barnes had joked that the Carlisle would sink beneath the added weight they were all gaining. There were no food shortages at sea, it seemed.
‘Don’t people eat each other when they’re shipwrecked?’ Hamish says. ‘What’s it called again?’
Molly puts her hand in the air. ‘Cannibalism. I read about it in one of my father’s books.’
Owen Shaw interrupts. ‘Don’t worry, kids. We’ll be rescued long before any of you would even consider nibbling someone’s ear.’
His remark makes Billy and Arthur giggle. The sound is an unexpected gift, but Billy’s laughter morphs into a prolonged coughing fit that almost makes him vomit.
‘I’m so hungry I’d definitely eat an ear for breakfast,’ Hamish adds, his expression implying he is entirely serious.
Molly stares at him. ‘You sound silly when you talk.’
‘People from different parts of the country speak with different accents, Molly. Hamish is from Liverpool, so he talks with the local accent, the same way you talk with the Received Pronunciation you’ve learned in school,’ Alice says.
Molly shrugs. ‘He still sounds silly.’
‘I think you sound silly,’ Hamish says. ‘So now we’re the same.’
Molly scowls at him. ‘We are not the same. I have a first-class ticket.’
‘Hey! You! Princess Polly.’ Owen whistles between his fingers to get Molly’s attention. ‘First class or last damn class, nobody could give a crap. Apologize to the boy, or I’ll throw you into the sea. Maybe that’ll teach you some manners.’ His voice is harsh.
‘Mr Shaw! Nobody will be throwing anyone in the sea!’ Alice glares at him.
The children stare at Molly, then at Owen, equally shocked and fascinated by him.
Molly bursts into tears. ‘Sorry! I’m sorry!’
Owen nods. ‘There’s no room for airs and graces here, young lady. There’s no room for anything much, but especially not that.’
He isn’t wrong. Daylight hasn’t only revealed how alone they are on the vast ocean, but also how little space there is in the lifeboat. Elbows and knees knock awkwardly against each other. Legs that would dearly love to be stretched out remain buckled and bent. Everyone is uncomfortable and restless. Alice notices cuts and bruises on her forearms that, now she’s aware of them, sting and ache. One man, bleeding heavily from a leg wound, drifts in and out of consciousness. Another, suffering from influenza, seems to be worsening by the hour. Lifeboat twelve has collected able seamen, a teacher, six children, a stowaway, and a dozen other competent and willing individuals, but one thing it doesn’t have is a doctor or a nurse. For those in anything less than perfect health, every hour at sea is an hour too long.
‘Sorry for butting in, Teach,’ Owen says as the children settle down to a game of I Spy With My Little Eye. ‘But that girl needs to learn some manners.’
Alice looks at him. ‘Perhaps. But threatening to throw her into the sea was a bit much.’
‘I’d have jumped in after her. I’m not a complete monster.’ He picks up his harmonica. ‘Any requests?’
Alice shakes her head. She finds his relentless playing jarring.
Owen shrugs. ‘“When the Saints Go Marching In” it is then.’
After what feels like hours, Jimmy announces the arrangements for distributing the emergency food and water. ‘We’ll err on the side of caution for now,’ he says. ‘Better to have plenty left over than … Well, let’s just see how we go, shall we?’
The meagre portions of food are prepared in an atmosphere of grim resignation. All eyes are fixed on Jimmy and a younger crewman, Bobby, as they slice painfully thin strips from a tin of corned beef and carefully place each strip on a ship’s biscuit. Almost reverentially, the portions are passed from one person to the next, first to the children, then to those suffering the most, and finally to everyone else. Each temporary custodian passes the biscuit along with the greatest of care as the lifeboat lists and sways.
When it’s Alice’s turn to eat, the smell of the corned beef makes her gag. The ship’s biscuit is so dry that it sticks to the roof of her mouth, but with the children watching, she has to set a good example. What she really needs is a long cool drink of water to wash it down.
As with the food, Jimmy has calculated careful rations for the water supplies. He announces they’ll have two servings of water each per day, although Alice isn’t sure why he’s talking about days when they’ll be rescued at any moment.
‘How much is a serving, Cap?’ Owen asks.
‘Six ounces. And there’s no need to call me Cap. Jimmy will do.’
‘Six ounces! Are you kidding me?’
Alice wishes Owen hadn’t asked. Six ounces isn’t even a full teacup. Less than two teacups of water a day? Surely Jimmy’s calculations are wrong.
The water is passed out in a steel dipper, a few inches tall, with a long handle. Alice makes sure the children have the first drink. When her turn comes, she holds the cool liquid on her tongue, washing it around her mouth before swallowing. It is so satisfying, and yet it only makes her desperate for more.
Molly asks why they can’t just drink the seawater since there’s so much of it.
Alice explains that it is too salty. ‘It could make you poorly.’
Overhearing them, Jimmy asks for everyone’s attention. ‘Nobody is to drink seawater, no matter how thirsty you are. It causes dehydration and can be extremely dangerous.’
Arthur says it tastes horrid anyway. ‘I swallowed a whole mouthful once. And then I was sick in the bucket I was using to build sandcastles.’
The brief interlude of the food and water is a welcome distraction, but it leaves Alice with a horrible sense of settling in. Their immediate crisis has extended beyond the first terrifying night, and the new morning is already slipping toward afternoon. She was so sure they would be rescued at first light. Surely the danger of U-boats has passed by now. Her initial fear turns to anger as she thinks of all the ships in their convoy. Not one of them had insisted on turning back, despite the desperate situation. Didn’t any of the ships’ captains have a conscience? Didn’t any of them have children of their own? How quickly Britain’s so-called young ambassadors had been abandoned by those who’d promised to keep them safe. She will tell Anthony Quinn, MP, exactly what she thinks of his CORB programme when she gets home.
When the children grow restless again, Alice distracts them with guessing games and songs in rounds until their attention wanders. To her relief, Owen interrupts a half-hearted game of Mother, May I to suggest something else.
‘Anyone know how to talk in Pig Latin?’ he asks.
Alice is encouraged to see how easily the children can be distracted and entertained, but they quickly become distressed again, worrying about their brothers and sisters, and the new friends they’d made on the Carlisle.
‘I do hope our Georgie’s all right,’ Arthur says. ‘And Uncle Howard.’
Alice falters. ‘Uncle Howard?’
‘Me and Billy were in his group. He was terrific fun. He could make a coin appear from behind our ears!’
The mention of Howard opens a door Alice has tried to keep closed since the torpedo strike. She pushes him from her mind, and pulls the emergency blanket around her shoulders, glad to have her turn again.
The lifeboat plunges on. Afternoon turns toward evening and the day shrinks below the horizon. The children enjoy a small tin of Carnation milk each for supper, but the treat is fleeting, and a renewed sense of anxiety settles over the lifeboat as their world dims and darkens, and the dense black of night consumes them again. This time, they know there aren’t any ships close by waiting to rescue them at first light, or other lifeboats nearby carrying their family and friends. This time, they know they are entirely, terrifyingly, alone.
20 September 1940
Terrible news. An evacuee ship has been torpedoed and sunk in the Atlantic. Many children are dead. Can’t stop crying. Turned the wireless off long before the air raid tonight. Seems wrong to listen to silly comedy sketches when there’s so much sadness. It feels like we’ve all lost a child on that ship. What on earth are we doing to each other?
Mass-Observation, Diarist #6385
19
Mid-Atlantic. 18 September 1940
Day One
The darkness makes everything worse. In the absence of light, noises intensify and morph into something new and disturbing. The ocean doesn’t even sound liquid. Beneath Alice’s feet, deep booms knock against the keel of the lifeboat. She flinches at every sound, certain the timber will splinter and see them waterlogged, or worse.
Nightfall has also brought the return of high winds. The salt spray whipped up from the water makes Alice’s eyes sting, so she keeps them closed as much as she can. She urges the children to hold hands, to stay close together. She checks that their life vests are properly secured, but her fingers are numb from the cold and she fumbles with the fastenings as the lifeboat plunges steeply down and the nauseating swell heaves and undulates. Everyone clings to something or someone as the unrelenting desperation of their situation consumes them all over again. Alice leans over the side of the boat and retches violently.
Somewhere around midnight, through a brief break in the clouds, Alice assesses the condition of the children. Billy and Arthur doze and wake in short bursts. Their emotions swing erratically – remarkably calm one moment, crying for their mothers the next. Billy’s cough comes and goes. He complains of his ribs hurting from the exertion. Molly’s seasickness worsens again. Brian is silent and withdrawn. Even Hamish is quiet, all his earlier talk of adventures at sea replaced by a visceral fear of the dark. Robert, the oldest child, frets about his brothers.
‘I promised Mother I’d look after them,’ he says, his distress palpable. His hair is plastered to his forehead. Streams of water thread down his face and neck. His knees shake from the cold. ‘I promised I’d stay with them if anything happened.’
‘Try not to worry. I’m sure your brothers are safe in another lifeboat.’ Alice hears the hollow ring to her reassurance. How can she – how can anyone – be sure of anything anymore?
Restless hours pass beneath wild gusts and wicked squalls. Jimmy arranges a rota for manning the Fleming gear, the iron handles that operate a rudder to keep the lifeboat parallel to the swell and prevents them being sideswiped, and capsized. Alice insists on taking her turn, even though Jimmy says she isn’t expected to, being a woman. She shuffles stubbornly forward to take her place. The iron handles are icy cold, the metal slippery to the touch. Spindrift hits her in the face. Her hands are so numb she can hardly tell which way to pull.
Owen Shaw works the handle beside her and sings a chaotic version of a children’s nursery rhyme. ‘Row, row, row, your lifeboat, roughly ’cross the sea! Life is but a dream, Alice. But. A. Dream.’
Alice doesn’t know what to make of Owen. The children respond well to his spontaneity, but his wild unpredictability unsettles her.
‘Where are we rowing to anyway?’ she asks, partly to stop his mad singing and partly because she is increasingly convinced they’re rowing away from help, not toward it.
‘Ireland, according to Captain Nemo. Welcome aboard, begorrah. Tis a grand soft day, so it is.’
‘Ireland? But that’s miles away! Days away!’ They’d sailed past the coast of Antrim and Donegal on their first day at sea. Howard had talked so enthusiastically about the Giant’s Causeway and Dunluce Castle that she’d promised to visit when the war was over. ‘We can’t possibly row to Ireland,’ she says.
Owen nods toward Jimmy. ‘Just repeating what the big man said. That we should set a course for Ireland, in case help doesn’t arrive. He reckons it’ll take eight days, if the currents are favourable and the winds prevail.’
‘EIGHT DAYS!’ Alice is horrified. She’d set her mind on toughing it out until daylight on the first morning. They were now halfway through a second dreadful night. She couldn’t possibly endure being in the lifeboat for six more days. And the children certainly wouldn’t. None of them could. It was absurd to even think about it.
Owen shrugs. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’
Alice decides Owen must have heard wrong. She works the iron handles, pushing her desperation into the movement of the rudder beneath the water.
When her turn is over, she crawls back to her small space at the end of the lifeboat and tucks her knees up to her chest.
‘Will they rescue us soon, Auntie?’ Arthur asks.
‘My leg hurts,’ Molly says. ‘And I feel sick.’
‘I’m hungry,’ Billy adds.
‘I’m thirsty.’ It is the first thing Brian has said since telling Alice his name.
On and on the children’s questions and demands come, and Alice doesn’t have an answer for any of them. She tells them to watch the sky for shooting stars and rescue ships and the first sign of daylight.
‘Shout if you see anything,’ she says. ‘Shout as loud as you can.’
But as the darkest, bleakest hours drape themselves around the lifeboat, there is nothing to see, no reason for anyone to raise the alarm.
It is now over thirty-six hours since she’d last slept, but despite her exhaustion, Alice fights the pull of sleep, afraid that one of the children will fall out if she isn’t fully alert. Sometimes she thinks she’s dreaming. Other times, she is pin-sharp and alert. Memories come and go. Voices past and present merge into a muddle of nonsense. She sings show tunes to herself, incomplete verses and half-remembered choruses, so that she sounds demented.
As she huddles against the side of the lifeboat, unable to stop shivering, her earlier fear and anger are replaced by a bone-deep ache of grief and despair. She thinks about how purposeful and hopeful she felt as the Carlisle pulled away from the docks in Liverpool. Now, with every wave that drenches her, she feels as if she’s being washed away, eroded by something far more powerful and prevailing than a fleeting sense of hope. What a fool she was. What fools they all were to think they could ever outrun the war and Hitler’s wicked weapons.
