by Simon Edge
There were extra full-day holidays at this season, and on the Wednesday after Christmas he took advantage of a more relaxed attitude to the normal rules and set off alone over the hill. He followed the rolling road across the countryside, which could never seem to decide quite what it was. It was almost as if Surrey had been picked up as a giant picnic blanket and thrown over a strew of unruly rocks so that it kept the pastoral aspect but took on the rugged shapes. As he descended for the last couple of miles, he admired the herds of towering pillow clouds, with one great stack knoppled all over in fine snowy tufts, until he reached the spot where the sacred spring burst from its hillside overlooking the twin estuaries.
It never ceased to amaze him that the star-shaped well in its spindle-pillared chapel, taller than it was wide, had escaped the desecration that every other Catholic shrine in these islands had suffered. They said Henry the Fifth had prayed here before Agincourt, although Hopkins was more taken with the story of Saint Winifred, who had her head cut off here when she refused the advances of the son of the local prince; the spring burst from the spot where it fell, so the legend related, and their own college was named after the uncle who later restored her to life. The first time he had come here, the place was mobbed: a few days previously a boy of eleven who had gone deaf and dumb after a fall from a crane had been restored to hearing and speaking after bathing twice in the well, and pilgrims and locals alike had been queuing at the inn above the well just to see the room where he had stayed. It was good to know that Catholicism was alive and well in England and so unafraid to express itself. But it was also nice to enjoy the place in the tranquility of winter, when he knew he would have the pool to himself.
He presented himself to Father Di Pietro, a tiny, ancient member of their own society who was in charge of the premises and had perfectly decent English when he chose to use it, but scant inclination to do so. Today was no exception. He returned Hopkins’ compliments of the season, but there was barely any other conversation as he let him into the chapel, where new wooden changing cabins had been installed.
Hopkins undressed and walked three times through the bath adjoining the main spring, before moving to the outdoor pool. The lukewarm water steamed in the chill air, and he allowed it to wrap him in its comforting embrace. You were meant to kneel on the saint’s stone, but it was too tempting not to wallow a little while here. Manoeuvring himself onto the lowest of the underwater steps that had been provided for the comfort of pilgrims, he sat with his chin resting on the surface of the pool and peered through the warm fog that clung to it. To think that this was purely natural, heated by the earth, not by boilers.
By and by his favourite phrase came to him. Díng dóng béll. It was because of where he was sitting, of course. Pússy’s ín the wéll. Once again, he thought how odd it was that when you were a child you accepted it perfectly as verse, even though that first line broke all the laws of metrics that you were taught as soon as you were old enough. The important thing was that it worked, with no offence to the ear. Where did that leave the supposed laws? What if they were simply explanatory theories, like in the natural sciences? When you observed some phenomenon of nature that didn’t fit the theory, it proved you needed a new one. Couldn’t the same be true of poetry? It would be much better if one stress made one foot.
The delight of his discovery made him shout out loud.
“Eureka!” he cried. He had always wanted to discover something in a bath so he could use that phrase in its proper context.
Father Di Pietro looked over at him through the window of the chapel.
“It’s nothing,” Hopkins called happily. “I’ve just worked something out, that’s all. Too complicated to explain.”
If the little priest was disappointed not to be enlightened further, he did a good job of hiding it.
Hopkins was too excited to care. The glory of his theory was not just that you could have one beat per foot, so that Díng dóng béll was perfectly good trimeter. You could also have three or four, provided only one of them was stressed. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. Térrible bútchery, fríghtful slaúghter was a four-foot line (you would call it two dactyls and two trochees in the conventional scanning), but so was Térrible bútchery, féll swoóp (which the old scanning would insist was three feet not four).
“Ha,” he said, and again louder: “Ha!”
Father Di Pietro did not even look up.
North Sea, 1875
Henrica was dreaming she was on kitchen duty in Salzkotten. She was stirring a large cast-iron pot, and someone who looked very like her mother – only that couldn’t be right, because her mother had died years before she entered the convent – kept adding vegetables and water. Henrica told her they had enough and the pot was going to overflow, but her mother ignored her and actually it didn’t overflow, but started growing instead. It got larger with everything her mother added, and now Henrica had to climb a stepladder to stir it, begging her mother to stop, because they didn’t need so much soup, and if she didn’t look out the whole thing would get too big for the stove. But her mother wouldn’t stop, and the range was beginning to buckle under the weight. Henrica saw it start to go and knew she had to get back out of the path of the scalding broth. She was running out of the door when the crash came, the metal screaming as if the range had ripped itself open…
“What was that?”
She was awake now, groping to remember where she was. The rocking of her berth reminded her, and now she saw the shape of Aurea’s white shift as the younger woman started climbing down the ladder from the top bunk.
“Did you hear it?” whispered Aurea again.
Henrica shivered and pulled the thin blanket closer around her. A true leader was always on duty, ready to take charge, to reassure, show an example. She wished Mother Clara could see her now. See, you should never have picked me!
“Can you see anything?”
Aurea was at the porthole.
“Not a thing. It’s still pitch black.”
There was a knock, and the stout figure of Barbara was in their doorway, candle in hand. Her hair hung loose around her broad face and she had thrown her tunic over her nightclothes. “Are you awake? Did you hear it? What do you think it was?”
Henrica forced herself to life, swinging her legs out of the tiny bunk and reaching for her coif. Heavenly mother, it was cold. “What time is it? Light the lamp, Aurea.”
“I’m trying to. My fingers won’t work.”
“Rub your hands to get the circulation going.”
A smaller figure appeared in the doorway, pushing herself in. “I knew it! Oh, I knew it, I knew it! We should have turned back when we had the chance,” wailed Brigitta, struggling into her own coif. “We should never have come.”
“Hush, Brigitta, you’ll wake the whole ship.”
“Nobody is asleep after that noise. What was it?”
Henrica had to stop them panicking. She was frightened too and she could easily start wailing herself if Brigitta carried on like that. “Is Norberta awake?” she said, as steadily as she could.
“Here she is.”
Norberta’s angular face appeared, yellow in the flickering light of Barbara’s candle. With Henrica and Aurea kneeling on their bunks, they all managed to squeeze inside and shut the door. Now the lamp was lit and they could all see each other properly. Henrica reached beside the hard, narrow pillow for her pocket watch, a gift from her father long ago, back in a world that didn’t pitch and toss and put you in fear of your life in the middle of the night. It was five o’clock.
“It was so loud,” said Aurea. She was excited as well as afraid, Henrica realised.
Barbara dropped to her knees. “Ave Maria, gratia plena…”
Aurea still wanted to know precisely what had happened. “It was like metal ripping,” she said, peering fruitlessly again out of the porthole.
&nb
sp; “Dominus tecum…”
“The motion isn’t so bad now, though.” That was Norberta, the first thing she had said.
“Benedicta tu in mulieribus et benedictus fructus ventris tui…”
It was true. The ship was swaying much less than it had been when they went to bed.
“But what about the noise?” Aurea wouldn’t give it up. “Listen!”
“Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus…”
“I can’t hear anything,” said Henrica. Apart from Barbara, she might have added.
“Exactly. The engines have stopped.”
She hadn’t noticed, but it was true. The ever-present distant roar was gone, and instead there was complete, eerie quiet.
“We should dress properly,” Henrica resolved.
“What was that?”
There had been a soft bump.
“And again!”
Now came a third bump, much less soft, and the ship listed abruptly. Brigitta screamed as they grabbed one another for support – being squashed in so tight was good for that, if nothing else – and even Barbara stopped praying.
“Come on, everyone get dressed,” repeated Henrica, in a tone that she hoped sounded brisk rather than panic-stricken. “Then I’ll go and find out what’s going on.”
Before the others could go back to their own cabins, there was a knock at the door. Henrica opened it as much as she was able and found Marta. Her cap was crooked and her hair uncombed, as if she had also roused herself in a hurry.
“Good morning, ladies,” she said with a cursory bob. “I’m afraid I must ask you all to put on your life-belts.”
“What has happened?” demanded Brigitta.
The girl’s hands were clenched tight.
“I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. The life-belts are just a precaution, but the captain has asked for it.”
“O sweet Blessed Mary!”
“Try not to be alarmed, madam. Please just put on your life-belts and stay here until you hear further instructions.”
“But what should we…”
“I’m sorry, madam, I really must go and tell the other passengers. I came to you first, but I do have to get round everyone as quickly as I can. I’m sure you understand.”
Henrica was sure the smile had gone before the girl had properly turned away.
There came another dull metallic thump, bigger again than the other ones, making the whole boat lurch once again. Brigitta yelped, and they all clutched each other for support.
Henrica broke out of the embrace. “Come on, let’s do as she says. Finish dressing and then let’s put on our life-belts.” She could hear the tremor in her own voice.
The other three went back to their own cabins to dress. That gave them more room to move, even if they were trying to do it on a slant, but the unwieldy belts were a further encumbrance over their thick layers. As she and Aurea struggled into them, there was a sharp report above their heads, and then another.
Aurea peered up through the porthole. “They’re sending flares.”
It was serious, then.
Barbara was back in the doorway, looking broader than ever in her bulky life-vest. Behind her, Henrica saw Frau Pitzhold’s door open a crack, and then shut again.
She made a decision. “I’m going to leave you for a short time. Barbara is in charge. I suggest you pray.”
“Marta told us not to leave the cabin!”
“We need to know what’s happening. Don’t worry, I’m wearing my life-belt. Get the others together now and ask for Our Lady’s assistance. I fear we need it.”
Frau Pitzhold’s door opened again as she passed, and she saw Fräulein Forster’s frightened eyes looking out at her. Henrica offered a smile of reassurance that she did not feel.
It had not been so obvious in the tiny cabin, but the empty saloon was listing alarmingly. It was difficult walking at such an angle, and harder still when the floor was jolted by another thump. It sent her tripping to the bottom side of the room, where she used the wall to steady herself. At the foot of the companion-way, she met Hamm. His topcoat was visibly soaked and he was breathing heavily.
“What’s happening, Herr Hamm?”
“We must try not to be alarmed, sister. I’m sure everything will be fine. Have you seen my wife?”
His shirt was not fastened properly at the neck, and his damp hair was blown wild around his bare head.
“I haven’t seen anyone. Only the stewardess and a glimpse of Fräulein Forster.”
“She’s still in the cabin, then. I left her trying to keep the children calm.”
“What’s happening?” pressed Henrica.
“I… I’m not sure. We’ll have to wait for the captain to tell us. Did the girl tell you to stay in your cabin? If that’s what she said, I’m sure that’s what you should do.”
“Not if nobody will tell me what’s going on.” She threw her arm forward to grab the companion-ladder.
“Don’t go up, sister. It’s really not safe.”
“If nobody will tell me what’s going on…” She was surprised to hear herself raising her voice to a man. But urgency and fear made her bolder. She knew now that she would have to assert herself if she had any chance of guiding her party to safety. “Please understand, we are five women travelling alone. In parties fortunate enough to have the protection of a man, it may be possible to spare the women the worst of the news. But we do not have that luxury, and keeping us in ignorance is not a kindness. If you know what is happening, you must tell me.”
He shut his eyes for a moment, then said quietly: “We have run aground. We have lost our propeller, so we can’t go back. That was the noise that woke us all up. It has sheered clean off. Those big thumps – there, like that one – are the waves hitting the side of the hull. Normally the ship would move with the impact, but now we’re stuck fast. I’m afraid it means the situation is grave.”
Henrica struggled to take the information in.
“But… if we are aground, what land have we hit? We’ve left Germany behind, surely, so where are we? Holland? Or England?”
“Neither,” said Hamm. “We’re on a sandbank in the middle of the Channel. The nearest is England, but it’s fifty miles away. I’m sorry.” He put his hand to his head to tip the hat he was not wearing. “Please excuse me, sister. I must attend to my family.”
He hurried away and Henrica turned back to the stairway. Hamm had told her not to go up, and it was the last thing she wanted to do. But she needed to see for herself what was happening, even if it was only from the safety of the deckhouse. Slowly she began to haul herself up, holding her skirts away from her feet and struggling to hold onto the handrail when the ship lurched with another thump.
Pushing the door open at the top and gasping in the sudden cold, she looked out onto a chaotic scene. The deck tilted at the same alarming angle as the saloon. In the light of lamps at the base of the masts, sailors braved the incline, and the hardier of the male passengers shouted questions at them as they clung to whatever they could grip onto. There was another thump, and a wall of white water broke over the higher side of the ship that faced her, surging over the whole deck. She gasped as it swilled into the deckhouse and around her clogs. Slamming the door shut in panic, she leaned against it. She was trembling with fear and cold, but she could not go back down yet. She must find some hope, something to take back to them. Summoning all her courage, she opened the door again, slipped outside and pushed it closed behind her before the next wave could come. Away from the shelter of the doorway, the wind grabbed her veil and jerked her neck back. She caught hold of the flapping cloth, pulling it round her face for protection against what she realised was driving snow, and clutched onto a rope stay with her other hand. She fully expected to be shouted at, to be ordered back below forthwith, but in the commotion the men all h
ad greater concerns.
On the bridge above her, she could make out the trim figure of the captain leaning forward and shouting instructions. The command was passed along the ship, gradually becoming intelligible as it came closer: “Launch the lifeboats!”
She strained to see, still gripping onto the rough rope stay, as a group of seamen in the stern surrounded one of the lifeboats in its cradle. Ropes were unfastened and the canvas top-cover was pulled off. Was it time to fetch her companions? Surely they would be told when to come up. In any case, Henrica could not imagine trusting herself to such a tiny craft, so what chance was there of persuading Brigitta? It had always sounded so gallant, letting the women and children go first, but there seemed nothing chivalrous now about men despatching the weak and defenceless into the storm. She watched as the boat was winched from its housing and lowered the short distance into the angry sea from the side of the ship that was nearer the water. One of the sailors was inside it now, then passengers were being handed in, first one, then a second, both gentlemen. One of them was holding his hands out, and Henrica now saw a small female group huddled in one of the aft companion-ways. It must be priority for first class, which was why her own party had not been summoned. Or perhaps Marta was in their cabins now, telling them to come above. But it was madness, surely, to set foot in such a flimsy vessel. The gentlemen were beckoning frantically to coax the women on, and one of them gingerly advanced. But suddenly, as Henrica watched, the boat was torn from its rope and disappeared on a ridge of white water. It happened so quickly, she could hardly believe her eyes. She saw frantic arms waving on the surf, then the tiny craft disappeared in the trough of a wave. Once again it came up, and then it was gone for good into the darkness. The last she saw was the three men aboard struggling to raise a sail.