The Ocean Liner

by Marius Gabriel

  Masha smiled, perhaps reading his thoughts. ‘That’s not the point. You behaved like a grown-up. Like a man.’

  Thomas squirmed, both at the praise and at the reminder of his youth. ‘It was only my duty.’

  ‘I think it was more than duty,’ Masha replied gently. ‘From the start, you’ve been very kind to us. It’s meant a great deal to me. To both of us. If my cousin is harsh with you, I want you to remember that her life has been hard. She’s suffered at the hands of the Nazis. The way she treats you isn’t personal.’

  Thomas felt that it was very personal indeed, though he didn’t say so. He was still aching for a kiss from Masha’s soft lips, which he was watching yearningly; but it didn’t come. Masha simply pressed his hand, looking warmly into his eyes. ‘Thank you, Thomas. I won’t forget it.’

  And he had to be content with that.

  Miss Fanny Ward was in a highly agitated state. She had called Mr Nightingale into her stateroom and was clutching at him with tears in her eyes.

  ‘I know someone has stolen them. And they’re precious, so precious. It’s not just the value of the stones, Mr Nightingale. They were given to me by Dotty’s father. They’re diamonds of the first water from South Africa. I would lose anything sooner than those. We must search the ship. Every cabin, every suitcase.’

  ‘Now then, Miss Ward,’ he said soothingly. ‘Now then. I couldn’t help noticing, in the lifeboats last night, that you were wearing rather a lot of jewellery. Is it possible that in all the excitement, you dropped the rings overboard?’

  ‘Look,’ she said piteously, holding out her hands for him to see. ‘They hardly fit over my knuckles any more. They simply can’t fall off!’

  ‘Let’s retrace your steps. Where were you when the alarm went off?’

  She pointed to the bed. ‘Asleep.’

  ‘So you got up.’

  ‘I got up and I opened the door to ask what was going on. They told me there was a submarine. So I ran to my jewellery box and I took as many of my things as I could carry.’

  ‘Did you put the two diamond rings on?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t remember. I can’t remember if I did or not.’

  ‘And you’ve searched your jewellery box thoroughly?’

  ‘I’ve had every single thing out,’ she wailed. ‘I believe someone came into my cabin while I was in the lifeboat, and simply helped themselves!’

  ‘Let’s see, now.’ Mr Nightingale inspected the heavy, inlaid box. Then he took the walnut chest of drawers on which the box stood, and showing a surprising turn of strength, pulled it away from the bulkhead. He insinuated his slender body in the gap behind it, and bent down. When he straightened again, he was holding something in his hand.

  ‘One,’ he said, presenting Miss Ward with a sparkling diamond ring, ‘and two.’ He gave her the other.

  Her face turned pink with delight, and for a moment it was as though she were indeed eternally young, eternally pretty.

  ‘Oh, Mr Nightingale. You are wonderful. They must have fallen down there while I was digging through the box.’

  ‘All’s well,’ Mr Nightingale said, pushing the chest of drawers back into its alcove, ‘that ends well.’

  ‘You must think me an awful old fool,’ she said, looking up at him through sparse, wet lashes. ‘But you know, at my age – well, this is all I have left.’

  ‘You still have your beauty,’ Mr Nightingale replied gallantly.

  ‘You’re a brave man,’ Miss Ward said gently. ‘In more ways than one. We all saw that the crew lifeboat was given up to the passengers.’

  ‘Just doing our job,’ he replied airily. ‘I’ve been doing this for a lot of years, as you well know, Miss Ward. And the passengers behaved awfully well.’

  ‘It’s one thing to endure dangling in a lifeboat; but it’s quite another to face going down with your ship and keeping a smile on your lips.’ Miss Ward selected a handsome ruby ring from her hoard and slipped it on to Mr Nightingale’s finger. ‘I don’t know if I’ll ever make this voyage again. This is something for you to remember me by.’

  Flushed with pleasure, Mr Nightingale took her knobbly little claws in his own well-manicured hands and kissed them. ‘Bless you, Miss Ward.’

  ‘Bless you,’ she murmured, ‘Naughty Nightie.’

  HMS Tisiphone

  HMS Tisiphone, a spanking new Tclass submarine, recently completed by the VickersArmstrong’s engineering works in BarrowinFurness, sliced through the sparkling waves to investigate the results of the morning’s stalk. The mood on board was one of elation. Her crew, led by one of the Royal Navy’s youngest submarine skippers, Lieutenant-Commander George Henry Cottrell, crowded the deck, scanning the water around them. The 4-inch gun was manned, but there was no need for it; the single torpedo they had launched had sent the enemy submarine straight to the bottom. The Germans, as they all agreed, hadn’t even seen them coming.

  Tisiphone eased through the floating debris and oil. They were looking for any survivors, but the crew were also eager for souvenirs of their first kill of the war. An enterprising AB was using a boathook to fish objects out of the drink. He was rewarded with a few German sailor’s caps, which were stuffed with kapok, and had floated to the surface. The men squabbled over these trophies eagerly.

  ‘Is there a boat’s name on any of them?’ Cottrell called out from the conning tower.

  ‘No, sir.’

  They passed by the trash of onions, fragments of rubber and waterlogged debris of all sorts which floated languidly in the swell. A group of life jackets was revealed in a distant trough. The men shouted down to the control room, and Tisiphone nosed towards it.

  Cottrell leaned on the rail over the eager ratings. ‘Keep an eye out for submerged wreckage.’

  ‘Aye-aye, sir.’

  ‘This one’s alive!’

  The shout brought the crew of HMS Tisiphone scrambling to the starboard side to get a look. They had seen several bodies so far, mostly floating face down. But the boathook had pulled in a figure that moved feebly in the water, his pale face stark under a straggling beard, locks of hair plastered across the high forehead.

  ‘Come on, Fritz.’ Hands hauled the German on to the deck, where he lay dazed and staring. He was uninjured but in a state of shock, shivering violently with the cold and seemingly unable to understand or answer the questions he was asked. There were no insignia to be seen on his overalls. They began to wrap him in a blanket against hypothermia.

  German voices could now be heard shouting hoarsely from the sea.

  ‘There are a few more of the buggers.’

  Another four oily and exhausted German sailors were pulled on to the deck.

  ‘This one’s in a bad way,’ the AB reported. They took off the life jacket and examined the man’s wounds. ‘Looks like he’s been shot.’

  ‘Shot?’ Cottrell repeated. He clambered down from the conning tower to see the injured survivor at closer hand. Pushing his cap back on his head, he squatted in front of the German, who had been propped up against the turret. The German’s eyes were closed, but he was breathing shallowly. This man was too badly hurt to even tremble with the cold. Tentatively, Cottrell touched his uninjured arm. The man opened his eyes slowly and focused on Cottrell.

  ‘Hallo, Tommy,’ he murmured.

  ‘It’s George, actually,’ Cottrell said. ‘Do you speak English?’

  ‘Little bit.’

  ‘That makes things easier. What’s your name?’

  ‘Leutnant zur See Rudolf Hufnagel.’

  This was rather too much of a mouthful for Cottrell to attempt. ‘Right. Are you the captain?’

  The German shook his head slowly. ‘First Watch Officer.’

  ‘And the name of your boat?’

  ‘U-113.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Cottrell indicated Hufnagel’s wounds. ‘Just to be clear, we didn’t shoot you. We only torpedoed your sub.’

  Hufnagel nodded wearily. ‘I know this.’

  ‘Would you
like to tell me who did shoot you?’

  The German moved his bedraggled head in the direction of the other survivor, closing his eyes again. ‘That man.’

  ‘A member of your crew shot you?’

  ‘He is the captain.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘You must ask him that.’

  ‘What did he shoot you for?’

  ‘Mutiny.’

  ‘Mutiny?’ Cottrell repeated in some surprise.

  The medical officer interrupted. ‘I need to tie off that arm, sir. He’s losing a lot of blood.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that.’ Cottrell stood up to let the medic get at the German. ‘There’s one of our destroyers in the vicinity. She’s heading towards us now. We’re going to get you on her as soon as she arrives. All right?’ He saw Hufnagel nod slightly. ‘In the meantime, we’re going to scout round for any more members of your crew. We’ve got five of you so far.’

  Unexpectedly, the first survivor, who had been silent up to now, began to shout in German, his voice hoarse, his expression wild. He was pointing at Hufnagel furiously.

  Cottrell looked around at his petty officers. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Cottrell asked.

  ‘No idea, sir.’

  ‘What’s he saying about you?’ Cottrell asked Hufnagel.

  ‘He says I am a traitor, and that I will be shot when the war is won.’

  Cottrell grunted. ‘Can someone shut him up, please.’

  The sailor shook the German’s arm brusquely. ‘Stow it, Fritz. The war is all over for you.’

  SS Manhattan

  Having missed Thomas at breakfast, Masha went to look for him in one of his favourite refuges, the little triangular breakwater deck at the very front of the boat. Few passengers lingered there; it was filled with derricks and loading machinery, and always very windy, with a good chance of being drenched by spray. No hat or scarf was safe there. But she knew that Thomas liked to hang over the rail and stare at the empty horizon ahead, thinking his thoughts, whatever they were.

  She found him sheltering from the wind in the lee of a winch motor, his chin resting on his knees, his arms clasping his shins. She sat down beside him. The cold had sharpened his features, making him look like one of those stray dogs one saw in Berlin parks, too aloof to beg for scraps, yet eyeing every morsel hungrily.

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset you yesterday,’ she said.

  ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned your mother. I know you must miss your parents. I miss mine. I miss Berlin. I miss all the people there.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Fräulein Morgenstern.’

  ‘Oh, you must call me Masha now. Haven’t we got beyond “Fräulein”? I hope we have. When you call me that, you make me feel like a schoolteacher.’ She laid her hand gently on his shoulder. ‘You remind me very much of someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Someone I was once very fond of.’

  He turned to look at her, his cheek on his knee. ‘Do I look like him?’

  ‘I don’t mean in that way. But he cared for me, as you do. And he was always considerate and kind, as you are. He thought of ways to help me before I even knew that I needed help. You are the same. You will make some lucky woman a wonderful husband someday.’

  He had nothing to say to that.

  Masha went on, her voice even softer. ‘I am very grateful for everything you’ve done for me, Thomas. You’ve been very gallant. I know that—’ Masha hesitated. ‘I think that you have perhaps developed feelings for me. Feelings that are more like those of a man than a boy.’ She saw that his cheeks were crimson now. She took her hand away from his shoulder. ‘I don’t mean to embarrass you. I know how painful such feelings can be. Especially when there is no possibility of their being reciprocated. I mean only,’ she hastened to add, ‘that there is a gap of several years between you and me—’

  ‘I know all that,’ Thomas said in a tight voice. ‘I understand. You need not explain, Fräulein.’

  ‘Masha.’

  ‘Masha,’ he repeated, almost inaudibly.

  ‘I just don’t want you to be wounded. These feelings can help us to grow, or they can hurt us very much. I would rather it was the former than the latter. I would not wish to repay your regard by injuring you. But if you should feel pain, I want you to know that the pain passes. With time. It fades, and makes a place for new feelings to grow, feelings for someone else, someone who can share them with you.’ Masha looked at Thomas but he made no reply, his head hunched between his shoulders. ‘And by then,’ she went on, ‘I promise that you will have forgotten all about me.’

  ‘Please don’t say anything else,’ Thomas whispered.

  ‘I’ve been very clumsy. Forgive me.’ Masha picked herself up and held out her hand to him. ‘I didn’t see you at breakfast. You must be starving. Let’s go and have lunch.’

  Since learning that Rosemary was not on the ship, Cubby Hubbard had been desolate.

  He paced along the deck now, hunched around his wretchedness, passing the rows of deckchairs where happier passengers were lounging at their ease. The chances of his seeing Rosemary again anytime soon were vanishingly small. He could never get back to London until the war was over. Nor could she easily come to the States except under heavy escort. Guarded in a tower somewhere in England, she was more than ever a lost princess in a fairy tale.

  He paused in his walk and leaned on the railing to stare at the rolling Atlantic which now separated him from Rosemary.

  ‘I presume,’ said a quiet voice behind him, ‘that you are wishing for wings to fly.’

  Cubby turned. The words had come from a woman reclining on the lounger closest to him. She was in her seventies he guessed, wrapped in a diaphanous, embroidered shawl that looked as though it had come from India or somewhere, a large panama hat and a pair of dark glasses shading her face. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

  She removed her sunglasses, revealing that her eyes, though lined with age, were a bright blue. She was lipsticked and powdered with great care to present an appearance of youth. ‘You don’t know the song? The water is wide and I can’t get o’er, neither have I wings to fly. My name is Fanny Ward. I don’t mean to intrude on your thoughts. I couldn’t help overhearing your exchange with Mrs Kennedy in the lifeboat the other night.’

  ‘Oh. Yes.’

  ‘It was her daughter you were speaking of? Rosemary, the eldest.’

  Cubby nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘A very pretty girl.’

  Cubby winced. ‘She’s the loveliest woman in the world.’

  Miss Ward considered him appraisingly. ‘First love is a beautiful thing. There’s nothing like it.’

  ‘The whole business is hopeless,’ Cubby replied heavily.

  ‘Oh, it always is. In my young day, girls were never allowed to marry their first love. It simply wasn’t done. One’s parents swiftly intervened. The man was told never to darken the threshold again and one was packed off to reflect on one’s folly in some dull and remote location until the season was over. One was supposed to be grateful in later life. For having been rescued from a terrible mistake, I mean.’

  ‘Is that what happened to you?’ Cubby asked.

  Miss Ward examined the brilliant rings on her fingers. ‘Well, I was rather a naughty girl, and I ran away to be with my first love.’

  ‘Did you? What happened?’

  ‘It’s too long a story to tell you now. But it was considered terribly wrong. One was meant to accept the intervention. And one’s feelings were to be folded in tissue paper in a secret drawer and never referred to again.’ She cocked her head. ‘You don’t mind my speaking to you of this? I’m old enough to be your grandmother, after all.’

  ‘I don’t mind at all.’ Cubby was glad, rather than otherwise, to have this interest taken in his unhappiness. ‘Your face is familiar. Are you in the movies?’

  Miss Ward merely smiled. ‘First love is never forgotten,’ she went on. ‘It’s the only
love that remains fresh and potent for a lifetime. It’s the truest and most innocent of loves, exactly because it can never come to fruition. Do you understand what I mean?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘It never grows old; you see? It’s as fleeting as the morning dew, yet it clings to us all our lives. It becomes part of our existence. It’s probably the last thing we remember on our deathbeds.’

  Cubby had been listening to the old creature with a growing feeling of discomfort. In her queer, gossamer wrap, with her pale-blue eyes, she was like an elderly fairy of some sort, laying a spell upon him. ‘We don’t want to give it all up,’ he said sullenly. ‘We want to get married.’

  ‘Oh, you mustn’t think of it,’ Miss Ward exclaimed. ‘First love is far too precious. It’s not of this world. It asks nothing and gives all. It has nothing to do with the trade and barter of marriage – the dreary practicalities of rent and children and dirty dishes and all that.’

  ‘But that’s exactly what we want.’

  ‘Would you lead a goddess to the kitchen sink? First love is divine. It belongs in the realm of the soul. Keep it there, young man.’

  She replaced her dark glasses, and the advice (if that was what it had been) appeared to be at an end. It had hardly consoled Cubby.

  He braced himself to speak to Mrs Kennedy.

  He tipped his hat to Miss Ward and found his way to the Kennedy stateroom and tapped at the door. Mrs Kennedy herself opened it. Although he saw her in his mind as a dragon, complete with scales and fiery breath, she looked pale and tired today.

  ‘You don’t give up, do you?’ she greeted him.

  ‘I just want to know that she’s okay,’ he replied quietly.

  ‘If you’re asking whether she’s weeping and wailing without you – the answer is no. She’s with her father, and she’s very happy.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that.’

  ‘And don’t bother writing her any more love letters. She won’t get them.’

  He swallowed that without comment. ‘What happens if they bomb London?’

  ‘She’s somewhere safe, Mr Hubbard. It has never been my policy to expose my children to harm.’