If the war had been sufficiently close to Cairo to lend an air of urgency to the Army and Navy activity and a bustle to the streets, it had hardly touched Bombay.
Dockers working to load the Maid of Darjeeling did so in their own unhurried way, Indian troops waiting to board smiled their toothy-white smiles and chatted cheerfully, unconcerned as to what might lie ahead of them.
Dear God, we shall never get away! Elise thought in seething frustration as she stood on the greenish tinted deck.
The Maid was a much smaller ship than the Stranraer, older and less well maintained; although Elise had a cabin to herself, it was nothing but a tiny cramped cupboard where the door opened directly on to one narrow bunk and there was no storage space.
As soon as she boarded a sailor had relieved her of her trunks – everything but the clothes she stood up in, a nightgown and a change of underwear – and though she argued and pleaded her protests had fallen on deaf ears.
‘You see now what I meant about the chest of your mother’s – what do you think would have happened to that?’ Brit asked; the satisfied amusement in his tone made her blood boil.
‘I can’t go eight days in one dress in this heat – it’s ridiculous! Everything turns into a rag in a few hours. I must be able to get at the rest of my things!’
‘Well, you can’t, and you might as well make up your mind to accept it.’
‘But surely if you spoke to them – explained – perhaps they’d put it somewhere where I can get at it …
‘I’m not doing anything of the sort. I told you when you undertook this voyage that it wouldn’t be any picnic, and I’m not going to try to get you preferential treatment now.’
‘I don’t want preferential treatment. I just want to be able to get at my clothes!’
‘Sorry.’ But he didn’t sound it.
‘Oh!’ She could have wept with frustration. ‘You’re just taking it out on me, aren’t you?’
‘Taking it out on you? For what?’
The colour rose in her cheeks: that stupid temper of hers, goading her into saying things she immediately regretted.
‘Nothing.’
‘No, go on, I want to know. Why should I be taking it out on you?’
‘Because I let you down about dinner last night.’ God, how stupid it sounded! And the amused lift of his mouth told her he thought so too.
‘Oh, that! My apologies – I had quite forgotten. How is your headache? Better?’
‘Yes, thank you. But that wasn’t the only reason,’ she said, wanting to put him in his place. ‘ I had to wait for a call to my husband. He sent me flowers.’
‘Hmm.’ The amused eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘That was a surprise for you. He sounds like a thoughtful chap.’
But he managed to imbue the remark with something close to sarcasm, so that the words were not quite the compliment they might have been and her temperature rose another ten degrees.
‘Yes, he is. He’s kind and considerate – a real gentleman. He’d never expect me to go eight days without changing my dress!’
Brit’s eyebrow lifted a fraction. ‘ Shall I give you a little tip, Elise? Try to keep cool; then you will find your dress will stay fresh longer!’
And he turned and walked off, leaving her to fume impotently. Wretched man! Why on earth she had begun to find him attractive she could not imagine and all she hoped now was that he kept out of her way on this voyage. As he had so rudely said, that way her dress might stay fresh longer!
But after steaming for four days along the coast of southwest India, through the Gulf of Mannar and into the Bay of Bengal, she was beginning to feel that any company, however provocative, would be better than none.
She had stood at the rail watching without much interest as they slipped past towns and sandy, palm-fringed beaches with the Nilgiri and the Palni Hills rising behind them. She had thought of Joyce and the other Wrens as they passed close to the island of Ceylon, guessing that by now they would have arrived at the Naval Base at Trincomalee, and she had almost screamed with irritation as the troops drilled repeatedly on the decks immediately above her cabin.
Moreover, boredom was not her only problem. As she had expected, four days had turned her crisp linen dress into a damp, creased rag which hung limply around her legs and reeked faintly but unmistakably of curry.
The smell of curry was everywhere, of course. With Indian troops aboard it was the staple diet and relays of cooks worked through the night in the cramped little galley to provide them with chapattis. But it was the spicy odour on her own skin that she found revolting, oozing with the perspiration out of her pores.
The fourth night, as they headed northwards across the Bay of Bengal, depression settled in on her; deeper and more wearying than at any timesince she had left Cairo and with it, a stifling sense of apprehension.
Hong Kong had never seemed so far away, Gordon and Alex so far out of reach.
‘I’ll never get home, she thought, and what will happen to Alex then? Gordon will be all right, he’ll have the business, but Alex … he’s just a little boy. He needs me. I should never have left him – never. And this is my punishment …
The misery was a yawning chasm inside her, sapping her energy yet keeping her from sleep. For hours it seemed she lay staring into the blackness, while the disquieting thoughts played chase-and-catch with one another and her nerves, tight as bow-strings, seemed to crawl beneath the surface of her skin.
At last, more from exhaustion than anything else, she fell into an uneasy, nightmare-ridden sleep.
And then, with startling suddenness, she was awake again.
The voice crying out with shock which at first had seemed to be part of the dream, she realised was her own; realised too that she was in a sitting position, though she did not know how she had got there, and that her whole body was tingling and trembling.
The cabin seemed to be vibrating around her, but in the pitch blackness she could see nothing. She reached for her torch and her fingers encountered emptiness. Stretching further and feeling about, she found only a hard, square rim – a frame. Of what?
Outside the cabin she heard raised voices. Crawling free of the constricting bedclothes, she moved on hands and knees along the a bunk to the porthole, where with shaking fingers she tore at the blackout. Light flooded in, illuminating the chaos in the cabin. The hard edge her fingers had encountered was the frame of the one and only picture which had decorated the cabin walls but now lay shattered on the floor amidst the debris of her toilet things. Her handbag had fallen too and burst open; its contents were spilled across the floor: lipsticks, hair-combs, coins from her purse, nail file and tweezers.
She stared for a moment, still bemused, not understanding, as the pandemonium outside the cabin increased. Then there was a pounding on her door.
‘What is it?’ She was close to tears, fear and bewilderment bringing the beginnings of hysteria. Along the bunk she wriggled again, fingers clumsy with nerves fumbling with the door lock. When she got it open there was no one there, just running feet, knocking and voices shouting further along the companion way. ‘What is it?’
She hurled the door wide open, running out in panic, heedless of the fact that she was wearing nothing but her flimsy silk nightgown.
‘Someone tell me! What is it?’
‘Torpedo!’
Who spoke the dreaded word she did not know. From one of the running, shouting men it came and hung in the air like the echo of thunder when the lightning has died away.
Torpedo. Dear God!
She froze, her hand clutching the doorpost, even her trembling stilled momentarily. Fear had taken on a new dimension now, so sharp and overwhelming that it seemed to have not only permeated every inch of her body but to be oozing clammily out of her pores.
Through the general hubbub she could hear voices shouting instructions to get to the boat deck, but she seemed unable to move. Boat drills flickered through her mind like pictures in a magic lantern show. But unlike the drills this was real: the fear, the noise. Her own panic was reflected all around her, seen in other faces, frenzied movements, shouts. Like a puppet, her head twisted this way and that, her breath uneven with a small, sobbing sound.
She took one faltering step forward into the path of a running man. His hands caught her arms, twisted her sideways into the cabin.
‘Hey, look out, lady!’
Her head was spinning now. She had to do something, but what should she do first? All around was confusion and noise – and all while she was still shaken by the rudeness of her awakening.
More voices, more running footsteps. And this time, incredibly, a face she knew. Relief flooded her as she ran towards him.
‘Brit!’
For just a moment he held her and the contact steadied her. He was fully dressed and she caught at the lapels of his uniform jacket, holding on to them as if to a lifeline.
‘Is it true?’ Have we been torpedoed?’
‘We’ve been hit, yes. I don’t know yet how badly. Get some clothes on now and we’ll go up to the boat deck.’
‘Clothes?’ Even now she was not thinking clearly.
‘Yes, but be quick!’
She turned to go back into her cabin, then swung round again catching at his jacket imploringly.
‘You won’t go without me, will you?’
‘Of course not. Hurry up!’
In the cabin she tore off her nightgown, letting it fall where she stood and dressing with clumsy haste. As she was fastening her dress, Brit threw open the door.
‘Come on, for God’s sake!’
‘I’m coming …’ Leaving her dress half open she dropped to her knees, scooping up the contents of her handbag and pushing everything inside.
‘Never mind that!’
‘But my passport …’
‘Come on! Just get your life jacket.’
She grabbed it and he took hold of her other arm, dragging her out of the cabin and along the companion way.
On the boat deck the confusion was more ordered. Men gathered at the rail near the boats they had been allocated in drills, and from the shouted comments Brit pieced together what had happened.
‘It seems the torpedo caught the port side. The boiler room is flooding.’
‘Badly?’
‘I don’t know. Let’s get you into your lifejacket.’
Obediently she slipped it on and he fastened it for her.
‘Should I inflate it?’ she asked.
‘No, not yet. Don’t you remember anything you’ve been taught at boat drills?’
‘Not much,’ she admitted and giggled nervously. ‘What about getting into the lifeboat?’
‘There’s been no order to abandon ship.’ Brit’s level tone calmed her a little but she noticed that instead of looking at her his eyes were scanning the sea.
‘What are you looking for? A rescue ship?’
‘The U-boat that put a torpedo in us. Bloody nerve, coming right into the bay.’
Another sharp thrill of fear. ‘You mean it might still be there? How would we know?’
‘We won’t, unless it puts up its periscope to have a look at us.’ His words were interrupted by the sharp crack of guns and he spun round.
She caught at his arm, asked on a rising gasp, ‘What is it?’
He half laughed. ‘ What I just said! They must have seen a periscope, or thought they did and fired a salvo at it.’
‘Did they get it? Where is it now?’
He took her by the arms, holding her steady. ‘Calm down, Elise.’
‘But the U-boat! If it’s still there …’
‘You won’t do any good by getting in a state.’ She closed her eyes momentarily, catching her lips between her teeth and fighting to control the panic.
‘Elise?’
She opened her eyes again. The hard lines of his face close to her gave her courage. She wouldn’t think of the U-boat beneath the water; the hole in the ship’s side and the flooded engine room. She wouldn’t think of the awful injuries suffered by the men they had taken aboard the Stranraer or of the dangers that would face her now if the Maid of Darjeeling sank. Take every moment as it comes and concentrate on living through it.
‘Are you OK now?’ Brit asked.
She nodded, clamping her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering.
‘Listen, I have to leave you for a moment. There’s something I have to go back and fetch, but I wanted to make sure you were all right first. Now, promise me you’ll stay right here by the boat and if anything happens while I’m gone do exactly as you’ve been told. OK?’
Don’t go! she wanted to say. But she said nothing, only nodded again, mutely willing him to be quick, to come back soon.
He squeezed her arm lightly and winked, a small, intimate reassurance. It turned over something deep inside her and she was almost startled that she could still feel the pull of his attraction at a time such as this, when mere survival was paramount.
Then he was gone, disappearing into the m’lée.
Left alone, the panic threatened once again but she mastered it, standing with her arms folded around herself to keep them from trembling.
‘Are you all right, lassie?’ a burly seaman with a thick Glaswegian accent asked.
‘Yes. But what’s happening? Do you know …’
She never got any further. The seaman had turned away with a startled oath; she followed his gaze, looking out across the clear blue sea, and gasped as she saw the white track of a torpedo rapidly approaching the ship.
She tried to ask, ‘What is it?’ but her lips were too dry to form the words and she was answered unwittingly by the Scots seaman’s shout of horror.
‘My God! Another bloody torpedo!’
As if mesmerised she watched its progress. Speeding through the water with the relentless determination of a shark who has tasted blood. The starboard guns barked, making her jump and scream aloud, and she guessed they were firing at the torpedo in an attempt to explode it. But still it came on, a dark messenger of death, and her eyes followed as it disappeared beneath the bridge. Breath caught in her throat then and she stood transfixed with horror, waiting through those seemingly endless seconds for the inevitable explosion.
When it came, prepared as she was she screamed again as the whole ship shook around her and then lurched violently.
‘Christ, that’s it!’ the Scotsman yelled above the mounting din. ‘They’ve made bloody sure of us this time!’
The panic exploded in her then, searing and destructive as the torpedo itself. Wildly she looked around. Chaos had erupted once more as the ship tilted crazily beneath their feet, shouts and screams filled the air and the order ‘Abandon ship!’ rippled over the decks in a swelling tide. Hawsers creaked as the lifeboats were prepared for lowering, a tannoy blared unintelligible orders and men jostled in their haste to get to their boat stations. But Brit was not amongst them.
She turned about, straining crazed eyes. Where on earth was he? Why didn’t he come back?
‘Come on, lassie, into the boat!’ The Scottish sailor’s hand was on her arm, urging her forward, but she wrenched away.
‘I’ve got to find Brit!’
‘Not now you haven’t. Come on!’
‘I don’t know where he is!’
‘Are you going by yourself, or do I have to carry you?’
‘Leave me alone!’ Impatiently she shook herself free, darting off along the deck in the direction Brit had taken. For a moment nothing mattered but finding him; every terrified atom of her being was crying out for him. Brit! Don’t leave me! Brit – I’m so afraid! For God’s sake, where are you – where are you?
The ship was listing as water poured into a gaping hole in the hold; her sandals slithered on the sloping decks.
‘Brit!’
The first lifeboat was lowered. She saw it drop out of sight over the side, heard the splash as it hit the water. Another followed; the gear jammed; men suspended out from the side of the boat clung on to the gunwales, swearing and shouting confused instructions to those still on deck.
‘Brit – Brit!’
A hand caught her arm, relief leaped in her, she turned and cried out her disappointment as she saw it was only the Scottish sailor.
‘Little fool! Do you want to get yourself drowned?’
‘Let go of me!’
‘Will you get into this boat! I know it’s not ours, but that doesn’t matter now.’
‘But …’
‘In!’
Her eyes ached, her throat ached, her whole body was too weak to resist. A lifeboat nearby was about to be lowered, half full; almost without knowing how she got there she found herself in it, the Glaswegian sailor beside her. In those last nightmare moments before the boat deck disappeared from view she searched the now thinning crowd, but nowhere could she see the distinctive figure in RAF uniform. Her stomach fell away with the fast and jerky descent; then they were in the water, rising and falling on the swell and a distance was opening up between them and the ship.
‘Come on – hurry it up – she’s going!’
The cries all around her hardly made sense. Going? Who was going?
Then, as she looked back towards the Maid of Darjeeling she knew.
‘Oh God!’ she whispered, going cold.
Men still scurried like ants on the crazily sloping decks, but the water was close, too close; with a sense of horrified inevitability she saw the Maid sink still lower until a swell lifted and dropped it and the sea swept suddenly over the deck, taking men and equipment with it.
Her hands flew to her mouth; above them she watched with horror-stricken eyes as, with a movement that was almost dignified, the shattered hull slowly upended and slipped soundlessly into the oil-stained blue depths.
For a moment or two after the initial rush of water there was complete and utter silence as if to pay tribute to the ship’s sudden end. Then all hell broke loose once more and the silence was broken by screams and shouts for help.
There was debris on the water where the ship had been before – empty oil drums, bits of wreckage – and men were swimming for the boats, catching at anything that would float. One, bare-footed with trousers rolled up, sat on an upturned painting punt, another clung to a splintered wooden spar.
Elise’s lifeboat closed in again to take swimmers out of the water, some wounded, some black with oil; soon it was so overcrowded that the officer in charge gave the order to pull away.
‘No more, or we’ll go down ourselves!’
There was one boy half in and half out of the boat and Elise, terrified he might be turned away and left to drown, grabbed his hand, hauling with all her strength until someone else came to help her. Then the boat was pulling strongly away, leaving behind the wreckage and the struggling men.
Numbed with shock, she sat staring back at the sea that had borne the Maid of Darjeeling such a short time ago and which had now closed over her funnel for ever. Everything she had brought with her from Cairo had gone down with the ship – her clothes and jewellery, the few things her mother had left her, even her toothbrush and comb. But it was not of her possessions she was thinking: it was of Brit.
The panic she had felt when searching for him on board the stricken ship was gone now, replaced by a shock-induced stupor and an aching sense of loss.
He didn’t come back, she thought heavily, and now she had no idea where he was: whether he was alive, in one of the other boats, or whether he had been one of the men scurrying on the sloping wet decks. Or whether, in fact, he had never re-emerged from below …
At the thought she sobbed softly, but was almost surprised by the depth of the pain that seared her.
A little while ago she had wanted him selfishly, because she was afraid. Now, with growing amazement, she realised there was far, far more to it than that. She wanted him now because to see him was the only way she could be reassured he was safe; to have him here was the only thing that would fill the aching void that had opened up inside her.
It wasn’t possible that someone she had met – and disliked – such a short time ago should have become so important to her. Yet it had happened. It wasn’t possible for such caring to grow unnoticed – but it had done so. Now the single most important thing in the world was that he should be safe.
Beneath the swelling restrictions of her lifejacket, her hands met; pressing them together, Elise began to pray as she had never prayed before.
The sea was wide, blue and strewn with debris. In the midst of its vastness the lifeboats bobbed; the two which had been launched from the starboard side now manoeuvred close together and, some distance further off, the three from the port side in a cluster with two or three rafts.
Even now, with the chaos subsided and a stillness settled over the unforgiving ocean, Elise could hardly believe what had happened. The horror of her rough awakening, the stark, heart-stopping fear, the awesome sight of the Maid of Darjeeling slipping from sight with that relentless slowness – all of it belonged in a book or a film which time and again played before her eyes in a sequence of vivid and unavoidable scenes.
How long would it take for the news to reach Hong Kong? she wondered. And would Gordon realise it was her ship that had been torpedoed? If he did, he would have to live through agonising hours – maybe days – before he knew she was safe.
How would he take it? Calmly, without a doubt. She never remembered seeing Gordon over-emotional about anything. But his face would take on a closed look, so that his eyes seemed to disappear into a hollow beneath his brow, and the creases would reappear between nose and mouth – always a sure sign that he had not had even his customary five hours sleep. And he would work, burying himself in his study or going to the factory, making sure he was never far from the end of a telephone but using the business as he always did as a panacea for all ills.
And what about Alex? Would Alex know? Gordon would keep it from him as long as possible, she was sure. But Su Ming might not be so good at keeping up a front. Chinese she might be, born in the inscrutable East, but she had all the inherent honesty of her people and would probably be so distressed on Alex’s behalf that she would be unable to hide it.
Then again, they might not even realise I’m involved, Elise thought. I don’t know whether I’m on an official Ministry of War Transport passenger list. Brit arranged everything.
Brit!
Her thoughts came full circle and the consuming anxiety for his safety that lay heavy inside her all the time rose to the surface again like a ball in a pond.
Dear God, let him be safe! I’ll do anything, anything, only let him be safe …
‘Hey, lassie, are you all right?’
The thick Scottish voice made her jump – she had been alone in a world of her own. She turned to see him looking at her; as she saw the concern written into the leathery lines of his face, her throat thickened with tears.
‘We’ll be picked up soon. We’re not far from land here, and we had ample time to send out a distress message. The worst is over, not a doubt. Even if the sharks should come, we’ll be safe and sound in this wee boat.’
The sharks! She had forgotten the sharks and barracuda.
‘Don’t look so worried, bairn. We’ll be all right, I tell you.’
Because we are in a boat. But Brit might not be. If he got away from the Maid of Darjeeling he could be in the water. And if he is, the sharks will come …
She tried to fight back rising nausea, but the thought was so horrific it had the power to claw at the corners of her mind even when she turned away from it. And after the torpedoing, anything was possible. The nightmare was real and she was living it.
‘Aw, lassie, lassie …’ The seaman took her hand between his weathered brown ones, at a loss to know how to comfort her. ‘You shouldn’t be travelling about on your own.’
‘I’m not … I wasn’t …’ She broke off, knowing that his next question would be to ask who she had been travelling with, and she had no idea how to answer him. What was Brit to her? First someone who had helped her, but for whom she had felt nothing but contempt; then a man who had stirred her senses and latent emotions whilst still infuriating her. Now …
She thought of him as he had looked the first time she saw him, his thick dark hair and hazel eyes, his face, strong though not quite handsome, his sensual mouth. And the same nagging desire tugged at her, blending with the anxiety.
Why had he gone back to his cabin, she wondered suddenly. To fetch something, he had said – yet he had insisted she left everything behind in his haste to get her to the safest place on the ship.
She stared out across the ocean, trying to think, but her brain seemed fuddled and unable to escape the constant circling anxiety. Hadn’t he said he was carrying despatches? She rather thought so. But given his inbuilt hatred of authority and bureaucracy, she would not have expected him to risk his life for them. If he had, they must be very important – vital, in fact. Nothing less would be worth dying for.
Something tickled her cheek; putting up her hand she felt it was wet with tears. He could not be dead, she wouldn’t believe it. Somewhere out there he was still alive, because anything else was unthinkable.
The hours passed; strange, timeless hours while the North-East Monsoon skimmed them silently back towards Ceylon. But the other cluster of boats, away on the skyline, remained as distant as ever and the men beneath the fluttering yellow bunting were as indistinguishable as had been the black ant-men on the decks of the sinking Maid.
Rations were passed round: malted milk tablets, biscuits and boiled sweets to which a thirst-quencher had been added. She ate automatically and everything tasted like cardboard in her mouth.
To try to cheer her, the Scottish sailor who had befriended Elise began to tell her stories of his tenement home in Glasgow and his fun-loving family – a crowd of larger-than-life characters who, it seemed, celebrated every one of life’s minor triumphs with enough drinks at the local to give them what he described as ‘ a skinful.’ Under different circumstances Elise would have been fascinated by the colourful tales; now, grateful as she was for his kindness, she soon gave up the struggle to concentrate and began to wish only that he would be quiet.
With time so meaningless it came as almost a shock when dusk began to fall. This morning, when the nightmare had begun, she had not thought much about rescue, perhaps because she had taken it for granted that it would come. Now, faced with the prospect of a night in an open boat, she began to wonder, remembering how vast the ocean seemed at night and how one could steam for days at a time without seeing another vessel. There was little point, she thought, in using the battery-operated lights on their life-jackets with no one near to see them; all the same, she put hers on like the others and drew comfort from the small red stars glowing in the dusk.
Exhaustion was overcoming her now. Her eyes felt heavy and it was an effort to keep her head erect; with increasing regularity it dropped on to her chest and though the jerk brought her back from the edge of sleep, each time it took longer for her to summon the energy to lift it again. Soon her neck and shoulders were stiff and aching, but she was too weary to move, too weary to do anything but slide down against the solidly reassuring body of the Glaswegian sailor.
‘A ship – look – a ship!’
Beneath her lolling head the broad chest heaved and shuddered so that for a moment, still half asleep, she thought the earth was quaking. Then the shouts, taken up by half the men in the boat, pierced the thick cotton wool that seemed to stuff her head and she opened her eyes to see a smoke signal sear the sky with a brilliant slanting trail.
A ship!
‘Where – where?’ She sat up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘Over there.’ She dimly saw a dark silhouette on the skyline. ‘Let’s hope to Christ it’s one of ours. We’re giving them enough notice we’re here.’
Sharp fear transfixed her as she remembered the talk of raiders machine-gunning survivors in open boats.
‘When will we know?’
‘Soon enough.’
There was no note of comfort now in the rough voice. Elise sat hugging herself with her arms to keep from trembling as hand rockets followed the smoke signal into the sky, showering stars across the velvet blackness.
Slowly, relentlessly, the dark shape emerged from the darker background, making the sea shimmer silver as it moved. Slowly the details became discernible, and as they did so the mood of tension that had followed the first delighted shouts erupted to an uproar of triumphant hollering.
‘One of ours!’ ‘We’re saved, lads!’ ‘One of ours!’
She seemed to crumple as relief replaced the hard core of tension and her breath came unevenly as she watched the ship come nearer and nearer still – a dark, ugly tramp steamer made beautiful just by being there.
‘Now didn’t I tell you it would be just fine, lassie?’ The Scottish sailor was laughing delightedly, as lit up by relief as he had ever been after a Saturday night’s drinking in Sauchiehall Street. ‘And our boat’s the first to be evacuated, see!’
She nodded, but already relief was being overtaken by apprehension and sick dread. All day she had been holding on to the hope that Brit was in one of the other boats. But when theirs had been emptied, all the others would be picked up too. All the survivors of the ill-fated Maid of Darjeeling would be taken on board this dirty little tramp steamer. If Brit was amongst them – wonderful! But if he was not …
The steamer was alongside now, ladders and nets dropping to their eager hands. Unsteadily Elise stood up. Her legs, cramped from the long hours in the lifeboat, almost let her down, but there were plenty willing to help her aboard, where a blanket was placed around her shoulders and someone urged her to come below.
For just a moment she hung back, looking over her shoulder at the other cluster of lifeboats to which the steamer would go next. If Brit was there she wanted to know it at once. But if he was not there … She shivered convulsively. If he was not there she could not bear to look at the rows of faces and not see his amongst them.
She allowed herself to be led below and gratefully accepted a mug of coffee laced with brandy. The fumes rising to her nostrils reminded her at once of times of sickness when she had been a child and then, by association, of the whisky Brit had given her the night John Grimly had died.
Anxious tension prickled along her veins again and she looked up, watching the steady stream of survivors coming down the companion way – men from her boat and the one alongside it, whose faces had become familiar to her during the long day.
Then the throb of the engines told her the steamer was slowly moving towards the other boats and her heart seemed to rise into her throat. As the first of the new arrivals came down the companion way she bent her head, afraid to see, but the temptation was too great and she watched over the rim of her mug as they poured down, falling over one another in their eagerness to reach rest, safety, medical attention – and that welcome hot drink laced with brandy.
She trembled as she watched them come, a procession of Indian soldiers and cosmopolitan crew, but as the flow became a trickle the ache of despair returned: teasing, torturing.
They had been spared, all these strangers, but Brit had not. The tears were a thick knot in her throat, and the atmosphere – noisy and smoky now that cigarettes were being handed round – closed in on her claustrophobically.
She stood up, muttering an excuse to the Scottish sailor who was still with her, and forced her way through the mass of survivors to go back on deck.
The lifeboats had all been evacuated now, but men still milled about and she walked the circumference of the deck in case Brit should be there somewhere, hidden from view, although already in her heart she knew he was not. Then she crossed to the rail.
She was numb now, too numb to think any more except to wonder if she would ever emerge from this nightmarish vacuum. She had ceased to question how important Brit had become to her. Perhaps it’s because I know I may never see him again, she thought dully.
Here in the Bay of Bengal the scene was of utter peace – star-studded velvet dark above the smooth sea. It was impossible, even now, to see it as a backdrop for horror and violent death, yet its very calm was ominous. Blankly she stared at the unbroken horizon, then slowly she became aware of something out of context, something that did not quite fit – a tiny red star glowing against the rich, deep blue. She tensed, her hands tightening on the rail, her eyes straining into the dark.
Imagination! Or was it? There was something – yes, there was!
Several sailors were crossing the deck nearby. She ran to them, catching at their sleeves – her voice, her whole body trembling with eagerness.
‘Look – over there – there’s a light in the sea! There’s someone there!’
‘Where?’
‘There! Over there! Look, d’you see it?’
‘She’s right!’
‘A light! There’s a raft! Tell the bridge.’
‘Starboard! Look – starboard!’
The shouts were muted by the velvety night air but the action was rapid. The tramp steamer steered a steady course towards the light, eating up the dark water at what felt like a snail’s pace.
Elise stood with hands pressed against her mouth, watching the raft take shape as the new hope within her seemed to freeze her motionless.
Could it be? Don’t dare hope! But I must – I must!
There were figures on the raft, three figures merged together, arms waving. She tried to make them out, breath coming shallow with agitation, nails cutting patterns into her lips. Then she drew one deep shuddering breath and held it, her whole body still as the first flicker of recognition began deep within her.
Dear God, I think, I think …
Closer, closer still and the joy of relief was flowering in her, bursting through her veins, yet still she could not move. She was breathing fast again, and every breath was a sob.
It’s Brit! He’s safe!
The searchlight was reaching the raft, picking up the three men in its beam. Her heart contracted at the sight of him, almost within reach now, and for a brief crazy moment she thought he had looked up and seen her. But the searchlight was blinding him to everything else – he would be able to see nothing but the blackness around it. She hung over the rail as the nets went down, anxious lest he should be hurt, but he reached for the net with a surprisingly strong grip, hauling himself up towards the helping hands.
Oh, Brit!
She started towards him then, wanting only to throw her arms around him and welcome him back from the dead. Then abruptly she stopped.
What would he think if she greeted him that way? He didn’t know the metamorphosis her feelings had undergone in the last twenty-four hours – and she didn’t want him to know, either.
But oh, it was good to see him – so good!
He looked up and saw her and her heart seemed to stop. She couldn’t greet him as she would have liked, but it was all there in her eyes for him to see. And for one wildly heady moment she thought she saw it reflected in his.
‘Brit …’
He took a step towards her along the deck, pushing through the men offering him a blanket.
‘And what the devil happened to you?’
The aggressive impatience took her completely by surprise and she drew back, staring back at him blankly.
‘I told you to stay where I left you. Why the hell didn’t you?’
‘I don’t know what you mean! I went to look for you!’ He swore. ‘Women! You realise I damn near drowned because of you? I was still trying to find out what had happened to you when the ship went down.’
She was numbed, shaken by his angry attack. ‘I’m sorry …’
‘So you damned well should be! Why couldn’t you just do as you were told?’
Behind the curtain of shock she felt her own anger rise. ‘I didn’t realise I was under orders. And don’t kid yourself it was for me you went wandering off – it wasn’t. You were going to fetch something you had left behind, if I remember rightly.’
They glared at one another for a moment, then he reached out to touch her arm.
‘All right, let’s forget it now. I could use a drink and something to eat.’
She drew away from him, a stiff exterior concealing boiling emotions within.
‘I’m sure you could. Don’t let me stop you.’
‘Elise …’
She swung round, head held high on her aching neck. Below, the Glaswegian sailor would be wondering what had become of her; he had been kind and she didn’t want to repay him with indifference.
Tears were aching behind her eyes and she wished desperately that there was somewhere she could be alone. Oh, for the cramped cabin on the Maid of Darjeeling! Oh, for Hong Kong and home, for Gordon and Alex who loved and needed her. Oh, for lovely, blessed normality, for the calm days which seemed to have gone from her life for ever …
Behind her she heard Brit call her again but she ignored him, walking straight-backed along the deck into the darkness that was her only privacy and feeling the first hot trickle of tears on her cheeks.
‘Leave me alone,’ she said bitterly to the soft night air. ‘Just leave me alone!’
But she could not be sure whether she was relieved or disappointed when he did not come after her.
As the only woman aboard, Elise posed something of a problem to the Captain of the tramp steamer, but eventually he decided that the only course of action open to him was to allow her the use of his cabin – a small square of space filled to overflowing by the bunk, his desk and chair, and with walls covered with charts, maps and the odd pin-up.
When she was informed of the arrangements, Elise’s first reaction was to protest. The Captain’s cabin was the hub of the ship – she couldn’t possibly throw things so totally out of gear. But almost at once she realised there was no alternative. Neither she nor any of the men would be comfortable if she had to take a makeshift bed on the mess deck, and the Captain’s cabin was the only one with any pretence at privacy.
But with the door closed after her, cutting her off from the company of other human beings, Elise was not sure it was such an advantage.
Alone in the darkness the terrors of the day were still too real, and lying sleepless beneath the coarse blankets, with only the brief slip of silk that was her petticoat between their rough itchiness and her bare skin, she found herself unable to avoid reliving every horrific detail, from the moment the impact of the first torpedo had brought her sharply awake.
It was as if she was subconsciously afraid to sleep in case the same thing happened again, she thought.
Eventually, however, exhaustion overcame her, blotting out everything until a knocking at the cabin door awakened her. At first she came lazily through the layers of sleep, then the memory of fear returned and she sat bolt upright, trembling violently.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s me – Brit! Can I come in?’ His voice reassured her. There was no urgency in it, no panic. As if he ever panicked! But her pulses began hammering all the same.
‘I’m not up yet.’
‘I don’t mind, if you don’t.’
She glanced down at her flimsy silk slip; she couldn’t have him come in while she looked like this. ‘ I’ll put some clothes on. I won’t be a minute.’
Her dress, stained and crumpled, was a disgrace but at least it covered her decently. Kneeling in front of the small flyblown mirror, she noticed how her face had been scorched by the sun, her nose and cheek-bones red and peeling, and when she tried to tug a comb through her hair she found it was thick and sticky with salt.
‘All right, you can come in now,’ she called.
The cabin door opened and she wondered why all her anger of the previous evening had evaporated so quickly, overtaken by this breathless eagerness.
Then, as she saw him, she almost laughed aloud. There was something just too funny about the canvas trousers, a size too big and bundled up around the waist by a leather belt, and the faded cotton shirt that must have belonged to a Goliath.
Following her glance he grinned.
‘My uniform’s still not dry. I did wonder if I might start a fashion, but I can’t see it catching on.’
She said nothing, mastering the smile and trying to resurrect her anger.
His face straightened. ‘I came to tell you the Captain needs his cabin.’
‘Oh, did you!’ There was no need to work at summoning up the anger – his attitude could do it for her. ‘Well, I’ll vacate it as soon as I can, but I’ve only just this second woken up.’
‘I’m sorry if you’re used to lying in, but on a small ship the Captain’s cabin is a very functional quarter.’
‘It’s all right, you don’t have to go into long explanations. I suppose I was so tired I could have slept the clock round given the chance. It won’t happen again.’
One corner of his mouth lifted. ‘All right, all right, keep your hair on.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘You blow up so quickly.’
‘I blow up! I like that!’
His mouth quirked again. ‘Yes, actually so do I. It’s quite entertaining!’
‘I’m glad you think so!’ she fumed, wondering for the first time whether some of his infuriating manner was intentional – to goad her into exhibitions of temper.
‘One piece of good news,’ he continued, ‘ which you’ll no doubt be pleased to hear, is that we’re heading for Penang. That’s where this ship was going when it picked up our distress call and the master sees no reason to alter course.’
‘Penang – that’s in the right direction for us, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. By going straight there we shall cut out Calcutta and Rangoon. It should take several days off our journey – maybe even a week.’
‘Good!’ she said, then was aware of a sudden sinking sensation as if she had found herself stumbling very close to the edge of a precipice.
What in heaven’s name is the matter with me? she wondered. A few days ago I wanted to get to Hong Kong as speedily as possible. I still do. Only last night I was crying for Gordon and Alex and all things familiar. So why do I suddenly feel as if some kind of punishment was hanging over me?
‘The Eastern and Oriental is the best hotel in Penang,’ she heard Brit saying. ‘ I shall stay there until we can move on again. What about you?’
‘Oh yes – it sounds fine,’ she said. Then, inexplicably, she felt herself colour. He must not know the turmoil he had started in her all over again – the way she longed to reach out and touch him just to satisfy herself that he was really there, really safe.
‘If the Captain is waiting for his cabin, I ought to get my things together – what there is of them,’ she said.
And her back was already turned when she heard the cabin door open and then close after him.