The Last Lifeboat, page 24
‘You should go,’ Kitty says, stepping in discreetly. ‘Get it over with. They’ll only hound you otherwise.’
‘But what about Arthur? I need to speak to Mr Quinn again. He promised he would order another search.’
Kitty places her hand on Lily’s arm. ‘I’ve already spoken to him. He confirmed that a supply ship already in the Atlantic has been instructed to resume the search, given the new information we have. You have your daughter to focus on now. I’ll meet you at the hotel in a while.’
A weight lifts from Lily’s shoulders. They are going back. There is nothing else she can do now, except wait and pray for another miracle. Kitty is right. She must focus on Georgie, but she won’t rest until she has both her children in her arms.
Lily holds Georgie’s hand tight as the car takes them to the hotel. There are so many questions Lily wants to ask her, about what she’d endured that dreadful night before help arrived, about how Arthur was during the journey, and when Georgie had last seen him, but Georgie only wants to tell her about how nice the Carlisle was, and how friendly the other girls were, and how much food they’d eaten at every meal. She seems to have blocked out the sinking and her ordeal in the storm. Lily’s questions will have to wait.
‘Auntie was ever so kind,’ Georgie says.
‘Who’s Auntie, love?’
‘Auntie Alice. The lady who came to collect us. We called the escorts auntie and uncle. She was in charge of my group. There were fifteen of us.’
Lily had only seen three girls return on HMS Imperial. The losses are unimaginable. ‘Was Auntie Alice in your lifeboat?’
Georgie shakes her head. ‘I saw her on the deck just as we were getting into the lifeboat, but she rushed off again. One of the other escorts, Auntie Beryl, said she’d gone back to help people trapped in their cabins. Auntie Beryl looked after us in the lifeboat until the rescue ship came.’
Eventually, Georgie talks a little about the night of the sinking, how she made it to the muster station and got into lifeboat seven, but fell out as it was being lowered down. ‘It tipped right up, Mummy. Lots of people fell into the sea and it was so cold and dark and I thought I was going to die until I was pulled out of the water.’
Lily can’t bear to think about the fear and panic, or whether Arthur was one of those children thrown into the water. ‘Who pulled you out, love? Do you remember?’
The driver comes to a stop outside the hotel. ‘It was that man, over there.’ Georgie points to a tall man talking to a group of newspaper reporters. ‘He pulled me and two other girls into the lifeboat. Can we go inside for the sandwiches now?’
‘Yes, love. We can go inside for the sandwiches. Do you remember the man’s name?’
‘Yes! He was everyone’s favourite. That’s Uncle Howard.’
35
Mid-Atlantic. 23 September 1940
Day Six
The storm approaches slowly, like a predator stalking its prey. Dark clouds snuff out the stars, one by one, until all that is left is a shroud of intense, impenetrable black draped above the lifeboat. Fat raindrops turn to painful hailstones as the temperature drops and the wind gusts and howls, and great waves wash over the gunwales again and again. Those who have the strength bail desperately to keep the lifeboat afloat. Those who don’t look on helplessly.
Alice encourages the children to sing the hokey-cokey, just as they did before – she can’t remember when – but they are afraid and weak and after the first verse and chorus their tentative singing is replaced with frightened whimpers. It is distressing, but it is also reassuring. It is their silence Alice dreads more than their despair.
Everyone clings to something or somebody as the lifeboat pitches and rolls violently. This is it then, Alice thinks. This is surely the end. Images flash through her mind, snapshots of the life she has already lived, glimpses of the one she might have known. She sees a cottage on a clifftop, overlooking a stretch of coloured sand that leads to the sea. She is sitting on a bench in the garden, surrounded by an arch of white roses, a book in her hands. Someone is walking toward her, but her eyes are dazzled by the sun, her visitor a faceless silhouette. She is so happy there, so free and invigorated.
But it is just an illusion.
A dream.
A suggestion of what might have been.
A huge wave washes over her and tosses the image overboard.
Stripped of everything, Alice gives in to her terror and despair and weeps for all that she was and all that she might have been and for the unwritten stories of thirty-five lives that will never be told.
The children scream with each dramatic plunge. It is like the first night all over again, but this time it is worse, the winds wilder, the rain harder, the terrifying pitch and toss of the lifeboat more pronounced. This time, they are starved of food and water and hope. This time, nobody has the strength to handle the Fleming gear. Nobody believes a rescue ship will appear. Nobody expects to survive.
There is so much noise and fear that when Alice is thrown forward and bangs her head on the thwarts, there is a moment before she loses consciousness when she is grateful for the numbing silence. ‘I can sleep now,’ she thinks. ‘I can slip away. I did my best.’ And through the retreating roar of the wind, she hears her father tell her about the constellation of Orion. Look, Alice. Look how beautiful it is. And a golden light reaches out and she lifts her hands to meet it, and her father is there, smiling at her. Your move, Alice. Take your time. Think it through. Remember to always look ahead.
36
Glasgow. September 1940
Inside the stuffy formal rooms of a rather tired-looking hotel, Lily leads Georgie to the buffet. She can’t eat a thing herself, but Georgie is delighted by the spread that has been put on for them, ‘In the middle of a war, and everything!’ After all she has been through, she is still just a little girl, easily impressed by a few sandwiches and cakes, ready to see the good in everything and everyone. Lily wishes she could be so easily distracted.
She reaches for Georgie every few minutes, responding to an urge to hold her daughter’s hand or smooth her hair, to keep her close to her side. She reluctantly agrees to let her go to the lavatory with another girl, and tells her to come straight back. She is anxious and restless. The formalities and photographs are tiring. The muted air of relief sticks in her throat as she stares at the buffet and tries to find something she can bear to eat. Everything is beige and dry-looking, and her stomach is in knots. For all that Georgie is wonderfully here, her return has made Arthur’s absence more pronounced. He should be here, with them. Everything is mismatched and uneven without him.
Lily adds a few triangular sandwiches to her plate so as not to look impolite. Peter always laughed at sandwiches cut into triangles. He thought they were complete nonsense. ‘Silly things they put out at weddings and funerals. When I go, promise you’ll give people sandwiches cut into halves. Give people something decent to bite into!’ There weren’t any sandwiches for Peter in the end. She’d blamed rationing, but it was sympathy and mourners that were really in short supply.
Peter’s cousin conducted the small private service in the local Methodist chapel. There were only a handful of mourners. A blackbird sang while he was buried. Wet grass soaked through a split in the seam of Lily’s shoe. The children went to play at the Ingrams’ afterward. On the wireless that evening, there was talk about the threat of German invasion and a second wave of evacuation, overseas this time. J.B. Priestley delivered his regular Postscript, and then Peter delivered his own.
A letter, and a diary, were enclosed along with his personal effects. He’d written the letter on the way to the training camp. It was the letter every soldier hoped would never find its way to their loved ones.
My darling Lil,
They said we should write a letter to be sent home in the event of the worst happening. This is my fifth attempt because how can I possibly say goodbye to you? I can’t, so I won’t. This isn’t a goodbye letter. It’s a love letter, to my sweetheart …
‘Excuse me. Do you know what’s in these?’ A man to Lily’s right peels back the top slice of bread on one of the sandwiches on his plate and inspects the contents. ‘Meat paste, perhaps? Cement? It’s hard to tell these days. Maybe I’ll stick to tea and biscuits.’
Lily doesn’t have the stomach or the energy for a conversation about limp sandwiches. ‘Probably wise.’
He puts the sandwich back. ‘You’re not with the newspapers, are you? I’m not entirely sure who it’s safe to talk to.’
‘Don’t worry. You’re safe. I’m with my daughter. Georgina.’ She nods her head toward Georgie, who is happily playing Cat’s Cradle with one of the other children. ‘I still can’t believe she’s here.’
‘You’re Georgie’s mother?’
‘Georgie Nicholls. Yes.’
‘Howard,’ the man says, holding out a hand.
Lily recognizes him now. He is the man Georgie pointed out as they arrived at the hotel. ‘Uncle Howard?’
A brief, self-conscious smile crosses his lips. ‘Howard Keane officially, Uncle Howard as I’ve been known recently. I was – am – an escort with CORB. I’m very pleased to meet you. Georgie talked about you such a lot.’
Lily grips his hand tight. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you. Georgie told me you pulled her and two other girls out of the water. I can’t thank you enough, Mr Keane. You saved her life. I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve all been through.’
‘You don’t have to thank me, Mrs Nicholls. I only wish we could have saved them all.’
Lily dabs at her nose with a handkerchief. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just all very difficult. My son is still missing.’
‘Would you like to sit down?’
They find a couple of chairs beside a fireplace and sip weak tea as Lily keeps a close eye on Georgie.
‘She’s a credit to you,’ Howard says. ‘She was incredibly brave. They all were.’
‘It sounds as if you were the one who was brave, Mr Keane.’
He shakes his head. ‘Anyone would have done the same. Raw instinct takes over in the moment. A primal need to help. To survive. We assumed help would arrive immediately from the other ships in the convoy, but not one of them came back.’ He pauses for a moment, as if to catch his breath. ‘It was twelve hours before HMS Imperial arrived. Many didn’t make it through the night. I find that the hardest to accept, that they made it off the Carlisle and into a lifeboat, and still didn’t survive.’
Lily puts her cup down. Part of her wants the details, but it’s too painful to imagine Arthur as one of those desperate souls waiting for help to arrive.
Howard reaches for her arm. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Nicholls. I shouldn’t have gone on. Georgie talked about Arthur a lot. She was desperately worried about him.’
Lily nods through her tears. ‘They’re going to search again, for more survivors. It seems they might have missed a lifeboat, but it’s been such a long time now, and he was only wearing his cotton pyjamas.’ This small detail torments her. Georgie had told her the children were allowed to change into their nightclothes for the first time the night of the torpedo strike. ‘I told the children to wear their coats,’ Lily says. ‘Just in case. I can‘t help thinking that Arthur might have been weighed down, that he struggled in the water …’
‘Try not to upset yourself.’ Howard runs his hands through his hair. ‘I feel so guilty for surviving when so many didn’t. Children, especially.’ He pulls a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and removes a book with it. He sits quietly for a moment, his anguish overwhelming him.
Lily can’t think of anything else to say and is glad to see Kitty make her way over to them.
‘Sorry to interrupt, Lily, but I’m afraid Georgie is needed for another photograph.’
Lily sighs. ‘Does she have to? Surely she’s done enough.’
‘Just one more. For The Times.’ Kitty’s attention is caught by the book on Howard’s lap. ‘Excuse me. Where did you get that book?’
Lily finds the question a little abrupt. ‘Kitty, this is Mr Keane. He saved Georgina from the water. He’s an escort with CORB.’
Howard looks at Kitty and offers a weary greeting as he turns the book over. ‘It was lent to me by a friend on the ship. She said I must read it. She was quite insistent! I was reading it when the torpedo hit. I’d got all the way to the boat deck before I realized it was still clutched in my hands.’
Kitty reaches for it. ‘That’s Alice’s book! A Christmas gift from our father.’
Howard looks astonished. ‘You know Alice? Alice King?’
Lily answers for her. ‘Kitty is Alice’s sister. This is Kitty King.’
Howard looks at Lily and then at Kitty as he hands her the book. ‘I’m so sorry, Miss King. Please, take it.’
Kitty’s eyes fill with tears as she looks at Howard, opens the book to the title page and reads the inscription. ‘She insisted you read it?’
‘Yes.’
A thin smile edges Kitty’s lips. ‘That sounds like my sister. You knew her?’
Howard nods. ‘I was getting to know her, yes.’ He pauses. ‘I’m so sorry, Miss King. For your loss.’
Kitty pulls up a chair and sits beside him. ‘How was she, on the ship? Was she happy? Homesick?’
Howard smiles. ‘She was very seasick, but not homesick. She was, I think, very proud of her appointment as an escort, and a natural with the children. She found the ocean freeing. Said it made her see things differently.’
Lily listens to their easy conversation. She notices Kitty’s manner change, the burden of her grief lightening a little as she talks about her sister with someone who’d spent those last happy days with her, and who clearly admired her.
She excuses herself and takes Georgie for the photograph. Thankfully, the photographer is quick, and doesn’t stage the children as rigidly as the previous photographers. Lily watches from a discreet distance. The small group of evacuees looks so lost in the large room, too few in number by far, and as the photographer encourages them to smile, Lily’s gaze passes beyond the five children present, and settles on the empty space to her daughter’s left. The empty space where her son should be.
37
Mid-Atlantic. 24 September 1940
Day Seven
The storm passes and Alice wakes to the most beautiful sunrise she has ever seen; the sky an orchard of peach and lemon trees. Or perhaps she is dreaming. She imagines herself climbing the ambered clouds, picking ripe fruit for winter preserves. It is so peaceful, so calm, the only sounds the gentle wash of the ocean against the lifeboat and Arthur telling Brian about some small matter of great importance to young boys. Above her, the sail hangs in lifeless folds against the mast. The boat barely moves, just a gentle rise and fall, up and down, in and out, to match the rhythm of her hand rising and falling on her chest. A breath in, a breath out. That is all she needs to do. Keep breathing. Beside her, the five children wake. One by one, they emerge from beneath their blankets. Five little miracles. Too full of life not yet lived to give in to the pull of death.
Five children?
There should be six.
Alice sits up. Her head pounds. Did she bang it? Had she fallen? She feels dizzy with the sudden movement. ‘Where’s Billy?’ She shouldn’t have slept. She should have stayed with the boy. She casts her gaze wildly about the lifeboat. ‘Where is he? Billy!’
Arthur tells her he’s sleeping. ‘He’s very tired. Uncle Owen has him.’
Alice turns to see Billy asleep in Owen’s arms. He looks so frail and small. He desperately needs fluids and something for his chest infection, but all they can give him is gentle reassurance and their increasingly anxious prayers.
‘How is he?’ she asks as Owen catches her eye.
Owen’s face is pale and drawn, his expression grim. He shakes his head.
Alice closes her eyes and prays.
An hour later, maybe two, Owen takes his morning swim, although he doesn’t stay in the water as long as usual and he struggles to haul himself out. The children talk about what they’ll do when they get home. The adults sit in stupefied silence.
At midday, everyone takes their dipper of water, the children unaware it is their last. Alice insists that Billy takes hers. She doesn’t long for it the way she had during the first few days. Drinking and eating are purely mechanical things now. Open your mouth, swallow, stay alive a bit longer. She refuses the offered chunk of tinned salmon. She can’t bear the thought of chewing something solid, afraid she’ll choke if she forces it down her dry, swollen throat. The children dip their fingers into the last of the pineapple juice.
Nobody pulls the Fleming gear. Nobody talks about direction or distance. The active fight to survive has become a quiet struggle to endure whatever time they have left.
The sun is full and warm against Alice’s face. She thinks about her promise to Howard to visit Ireland – the Antrim coast, the Giant’s Causeway, Dunluce Castle. She closes her eyes and sees a cottage on a clifftop, an arch of white roses, coloured sand, a face silhouetted against the sun. A peaceful place.
She trails her hand over the side of the lifeboat. It is a gentle day, a good day to slip away, to go quietly into the water.
Hours pass. A distant hum drifts through the air. Alice thinks of summer afternoons, the bees in her uncle’s hives, lavender-scented honey on thick slices of freshly baked bread. It is a soothing sound, familiar and yet somehow out of place.
She opens her eyes, sees the ocean, closes them again.
Another minute passes.
The bees return, closer now. Just over the fence in the orchard. Three white hives beneath the apple trees. Honey and bread for supper.
‘A plane! There’s a plane!’
Arthur’s shrill voice cuts through the silence.
Alice opens one eye. Nobody else stirs.
The voice comes again. Someone is shaking her hand. ‘Look, Auntie! A plane! A real plane!’
