Oriental Hotel (28 page)

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.