So Long At the Fair

by Jess Foley

  Jane, Abbie knew, was not nearly as strong a swimmer as she herself. She also knew that unless help came soon they were both doomed. They could not stay afloat for long; not only were her own water-sodden clothes dragging her down, but Jane was very heavy in her grasp and seemed unable to do much to help.

  Looking back towards the broken vessel, Abbie saw that it was sinking fast; the after section had settled back into the water and the lower deck was now only a few feet above the surface. She watched as the funnels were submerged and saw a great burst of steam come up. Then suddenly the whole of the after section began to turn in the water, rolling over completely. As it did so it pitched its remaining passengers screaming into the river. For some moments the keel of the hull was visible, but then that too vanished as the after part subsided and sank out of sight. Seconds later the fore section of the boat followed the same pattern, first toppling over and then vanishing beneath the surface. Not more than six minutes had passed since the collision, but now there was no longer any sign of the pleasure steamer except for the pieces of floating wreckage that strewed the river’s surface and the shrieking people who struggled to stay afloat.

  ‘Leave me . . .’

  Abbie realized that the words had come from Jane.

  ‘Leave you?’ she gasped. ‘No . . . no . . .’

  ‘Leave me,’ Jane cried again, choking as water filled her mouth. ‘Save yourself!’

  ‘Hush!’ Abbie gasped. ‘Don’t talk. Save your breath.’

  The exchange of words somehow seemed to give Abbie greater strength, and she forged on, swallowing water and gasping with the effort of supporting herself and Jane, but nevertheless making progress.

  Abbie had already seen that both banks of the river were too far away to think of swimming to. Even without Jane she could not have managed it. Her only hope was to try to get help from the collier or some other river craft. Looking towards the Bywell Castle, she saw that a number of ropes had been thrown over her sides, and that some lucky few were managing to cling to them. Renewing her grasp on Jane, she forced herself on through the water.

  The distance to the side of the collier was not more than forty yards and under different circumstances the swim would have presented Abbie with no difficulties. As it was, however, it seemed to take for ever and at times she felt that she would never get there. Not only was her way strewn with wreckage and desperate, struggling bodies, but she had Jane to support and drag along with her. To make her task even harder, the weight of her clothing seemed to grow greater by the second. Added to this, the narrow, sheath-like style of her skirt hampered the movement of her legs, so that it took all her strength and effort to make headway. And all through her struggles the evening air rang out with the piteous cries of dying people. Time and again she saw men, women and small children sink before her eyes; there was nothing she could do to help any of them.

  She reached the side of the collier with what she felt was her last breath. There was a rope nearby with a man and a woman clinging to it. With a great effort she lunged towards it. But even as she did so, two men swam up, reached out for the rope and clung on, leaving no room for Jane and herself. But then, a moment later, just when she began to feel that they must surely die, there was a shout from the deck above and another rope came snaking down to hit the water with a splash only inches from her head.

  Quickly she snatched at it with one hand, grasped it tightly and cried out to Jane, ‘There’s a rope here! Hold on to it. Help will be here soon.’

  Next moment they were both holding fast to the rope, to be joined almost immediately by a man who swam up and grasped it above Abbie’s clutching hands.

  Hanging on to the rope, Abbie saw before her the continuing spectacle of people drowning. Wherever she looked she could see them floundering and thrashing in the water, their mouths opening wide as they screamed and shouted to the skies. A few feet away a woman appeared, struggling to reach the ropes that hung from the deck of the Bywell Castle, In one arm she held a child. With a lurch forward she thrust the infant before her, at the same time crying out, ‘Save my baby! Oh, save my baby!’ Releasing one hand from the rope, Abbie snatched at the babe, managing to grasp it by its clothing. As she did so the child’s mother lifted her head and blood spewed out of her mouth. The next moment she had gone down beneath the surface of the water. In Abbie’s grasp the tiny child hung limp as a rag doll. She clutched it closer to her and looked down into its face, and saw its death-dulled little eyes turned unseeing up towards the darkening sky. With a groan she released her grip on the dead little burden and watched it sink out of sight.

  Although the water still teemed with people, Abbie realized that the numbers were growing smaller with each passing second. So many had already drowned. She became aware too that the cries were fading, growing fainter as one by one the victims gave up their struggles and slipped beneath the waves. Only minutes ago they had been there in their hundreds. Now most had disappeared from sight, the only sign that they had ever existed in the vast number of hats, bonnets, umbrellas and bags that covered the river’s surface.

  Lit by the moon and by lanterns, boats began to appear – boats that had pushed off from the banks almost within seconds of the collision. Among them Abbie saw a barge, its crew pulling survivors on board. Then, as she and Jane hung on to the rope, waiting, there came a voice hailing them and they saw a dinghy approaching, one man at the oars and another leaning forward in the prow. Soon the little craft was beside them and the man in the prow was bending and hauling Jane into the boat. Abbie followed, and afterwards the man who had been holding on to the rope with them. Then, laden with its wet and shuddering burden, the little vessel set off for the southern bank.

  Side by side in the centre of the dinghy, Abbie and Jane sat huddled together, Abbie’s arm round Jane’s shoulders. As she turned, looking back over the dark water, the thought came to her of how swiftly things could change. Only a dozen short minutes ago there had been a pleasure boat there on the river, the Princess Alice, her decks swarming with more than eight hundred happy people – talking, laughing, singing and dancing. Now the Princess Alice lay in pieces at the bottom of the river, along with most of her passengers and crew.

  Abbie tightened her hold around Jane and turned away, setting her face towards the nearing river bank. She felt Jane shudder in her arms and heard her murmur on a little choking sob, ‘Arthur . . . Emma . . . Where are they?’

  Abbie closed her eyes as the thoughts and the questions churned in her brain. Where indeed were they? And where was Louis? And where too were Iris and Alfred?

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  As the dinghy reached the wharf on the southern side of the river, the smaller and younger of the two men leaped out and secured the painter. At the same time the older man turned to Abbie and asked whether she could walk unaided. Shivering uncontrollably, teeth chattering, she replied that she could. ‘Though I’m not sure about my friend,’ she added.

  ‘Right.’ He nodded and called to his companion, ‘Let’s get this young lady out first, shall we?’

  While the smaller man steadied the boat, the other stooped and gathered Jane up into his arms. The vessel rocked as he did so, but he rode out the moments of pitching and carried her onto the wharf. He stood there then while the younger man first helped Abbie onto the shore and then the young male survivor.

  Standing, so thankfully, once more on firm ground, Abbie turned and looked out over the moonlit waters of the river. By the lamps that burned on her decks she could easily make out the tall shape of the Bywell Castle riding at anchor close to the scene of the collision. And there also was the Duke of Teck, the pleasure steamer that had followed the Alice upriver, now doing what she could to save survivors. Abbie could also see the dark shapes of smaller boats and barges moving about in continuing rescue efforts. How different now was the sound emanating from the scene. The screams of people thrashing about in the water had gone, and now only the distant voices of the rescuers could be hea
rd.

  Carrying Jane in his arms, the tall boatman led the way to a public house, the Steam Packet, which was situated on a corner a short distance away. There the two men left the three survivors in the care of the landlord and his wife and, hardly waiting long enough to receive thanks, disappeared again into the night.

  The landlord, Plaister by name, was a tall, heavy-set man in his forties; his wife a short, plump little woman with greying hair tied back in a bun. They were kindness itself and set about doing all they could to make their unexpected guests comfortable. Their barmaid was left in charge of the saloon – though there were no customers present, all having hurried down to the river bank to witness what they could of the drama.

  While the landlord took the young man into one room to get dry, the landlord’s wife led Abbie and Jane into another.

  In the little parlour leading from the kitchen Jane sank gratefully into a chair. She seemed to be in a state of stunned apathy, and it was only through the efforts of Abbie and Mrs Painter that she could be prevailed upon to get out of her wet clothes, to dry herself and wrap herself in the blankets the older woman provided.

  As Abbie and Mrs Plaister helped Jane, it became clear that when leaping into the wreckage-strewn water she had sustained some injuries. Thankfully, however, it appeared that there was nothing really serious, though she had suffered a knock to her head, a grazed shin and, most painful of all, bruising of her ribs on the right side. Abbie herself had been very lucky; her only injuries were a slight bruise on her hip and another on her left elbow. She was aware of a feeling of discomfort in her lower abdomen, but as she had swallowed so much of the filthy, foul-tasting river water she was not in the least surprised by it.

  When Mrs Plaister had cleaned and dressed the wound on Jane’s leg she and Abbie helped her back into the kitchen and into a chair before the crackling fire. Abbie, also wrapped in a blanket, sat on a chair at Jane’s side. On Abbie’s right sat the male survivor, also enveloped in a blanket. Abbie knew nothing about him apart from what she had observed. He was of medium height with a lean build, a narrow face, dark hair and a small, neat moustache. There was a dark bruise on the left side of his face and the knuckles of his right hand were skinned raw. He had hardly spoken more than a dozen words since they had come together in the dinghy. Now, like Abbie and Jane, he sat hunched in his chair, staring dully into the flames of the fire.

  While Mrs Plaister prepared food for the three her husband wrote down their names and addresses. That done, he hurried off to the local police station to give word of the survivors in his care and seek advice as to how they should be further aided. After he had gone Mrs Plaister poured mugs of hot lentil soup. Abbie and the young man – he gave his name as Henry McGibbon and an address in Pimlico – sat sipping the soup in a slow, mechanical way. Jane did not raise her mug to her mouth but stared into the fire, a look of dull incomprehension in her eyes. There were no tears shed by any of the three and, while no one wept, rarely did anyone speak. Each of them seemed to be stunned by what had happened. Like Jane and the young man, Abbie sat looking into the flames of the fire, while through her mind ran endless questions as to the fate of those she loved.

  The landlord returned from Woolwich police station with the information that places of succour were being prepared at the Union Infirmary, the workhouse situated at nearby Plumstead, and that the survivors were to be taken there. So, a little later, dressed in fresh, dry clothing provided by the landlord and his wife, the three were taken by cab to Plumstead. Before they left they were assured by Mrs Plaister that their own clothes would be delivered to them as soon as they were dry.

  It was gone midnight by the time they reached their destination. In the workhouse yard they descended from the cab to be met by the director of the house, Dr Rice, and the senior nurse, Miss Wilkinson. Entering the building, they were led to a comfortable room from which, one by one, they were taken into the doctor’s consulting room a short distance along a corridor. Jane was seen first, and when she came out some minutes later Abbie was shown in.

  She took a seat in a chair facing the doctor who sat behind a desk. He was a short man in his fifties with a rather dapper appearance that was added to by his neat, close-cropped white hair and beard. The nurse, Miss Wilkinson, sat nearby. She was a tall, stockily built woman in her forties who, in spite of her slightly forbidding no-nonsense air, looked at Abbie with an expression of kindness.

  After taking down Abbie’s name and address, the doctor said, ‘This meeting has, of necessity, to be brief, Mrs Randolph – I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Our priority for the moment,’ he added, ‘is to get you and the other lady and gentleman to bed to get some rest.’ His manner was brisk but sympathetic. ‘For the time being I just want to make sure you’re not suffering from any injury that needs immediate treatment.’

  She told him that all things considered she felt well and that she was not suffering from anything other than the odd bruise. For a moment she debated whether to mention her pregnancy, but she did not. She was more concerned about those who were missing, and in the knowledge that preparations were underway to receive relatively large numbers of survivors, she was in hope that there might be news of Louis and the others. When she gave the names to the doctor, however, he gave a slow, sad shake of his head.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ he said. ‘Your friend Mrs Gilmore asked me the same thing. But I’m afraid that so far only eleven survivors have been brought in – including you and Mrs Gilmore and the gentleman, Mr McGibbon.’

  ‘Eleven? Only eleven?’

  ‘So far, yes. But you mustn’t give up hope. We’re certainly expecting more to arrive. We understand from the police that survivors have been taken to various other houses and places in the vicinity – to be cared for for the time being. We expect them to come to us before long. Others, we’re given to understand, have almost certainly managed to find their way home.’

  Abbie dully nodded acknowledgement of his words, though she found no comfort in them.

  The doctor went on, ‘I understand that you and Mrs Gilmore are old friends.’

  ‘Yes. We’ve known one another since we were children.’

  ‘Right.’ He glanced round at the nurse. ‘We’ll make sure that you have adjacent beds in the infirmary.’

  Abbie thanked him. ‘Jane – Mrs Gilmore –’ she said, ‘is she all right?’

  ‘Do you have doubts about her?’

  She gave a little shrug. ‘Well, I don’t think she came through it as well as I. I know that she’s got a few aches and pains . . . Her ribs and . . .’

  He gave a slow nod. ‘I shouldn’t worry about her. She’s suffering from shock, of course. Though she’s also sustained some considerable contusions and a few other minor injuries. I don’t think there’s anything to be unduly worried about, but we shall keep an eye on her. Don’t worry.’

  Abbie left the doctor and returned to the room where Jane and the young man waited. When the nurse appeared a minute or two later she took the young man off to see the doctor, then came back to Abbie and Jane.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘let’s get you to bed, shall we? I’m sure you must be very tired. First of all, though, let me have the names of your husbands and other relatives and friends . . . As the doctor said, we’re expecting more survivors to be brought in tonight.’

  Abbie and Jane gave her the required information, which she carefully wrote down. Then at her request they got up and followed her out of the room. Walking at Jane’s side, half supporting her, Abbie went after the nurse down a long, narrow corridor of the women’s wing. The place seemed vast and gloomy, and their echoing footsteps took them past door after door, each of which, Abbie imagined, was closed upon a little cell in which slept some destitute female.

  Eventually they arrived at one of the newly prepared infirmary wards, a large, high-ceilinged room containing some thirty beds. The room next door, the nurse said, held a further twenty of the
total of fifty beds set aside for surviving females, though so far only three were occupied. Looking into the dimly lit room Abbie could see the three occupied beds. in them their occupants lay still and covered up.

  Abbie and Jane were shown to adjacent beds a little distance from those already taken. Speaking in a low voice so as not to disturb the other inmates, the nurse told Abbie and Jane where the WC was located and made sure they knew how to find their way to her office if she should be needed. ‘I shall be up all night receiving more admissions,’ she said, ‘so don’t hesitate to come for my help if you need it. Though in any case, one of my assistants will be making the rounds from time to time.’

  After checking they had everything they needed for the time being, she said goodnight and left them.

  The large, plain, spotlessly clean room was simply furnished with a locker and a chair beside each bed. Over Abbie’s bed hung a cheap print depicting Christ surrounded by children of all nations. There was a screen there, and Abbie pulled it around the beds, and behind it helped Jane change into the coarse cotton nightgown that had been supplied. That done, she saw Jane into bed, where she lay silent and unmoving. She had spoken barely more than a word since being brought ashore in the dinghy.

  Abbie put on the nightgown that had been left for her, then climbed into the bed next to Jane’s and lay there looking up at the ceiling. She felt somehow unreal. It was as if she were living in a dream. There was a strange feeling of numbness about her – as if there were a shield that somehow kept much of the reality at bay. And not only she herself was affected in such a way; she thought of Jane lying beside her, silent and dry-eyed, and also of the young man, Henry McGibbon. On their arrival at the workhouse she had heard him making enquiries after his wife and two small daughters. There had been no tears in his eyes, no sound of hysteria or any kind of emotion in his voice. He had been strangely matter-of-fact, his words delivered in a dull monotone, as if he were slightly removed from it all. And perhaps he had been. Perhaps they all were – by that cocoon that protected them from the reality of the horror.