Titanic Ashes (5 page)

EVELYN FEELS IT SWEEP
through her in short,
strong pulses: the imperative of it, the knowledge that she
must now act. Her head becomes muffled—in a separate
world entirely from the glass by her hand, the food on her
plate, the lights overhead, and the ornate mirrors—yet
keenly alert. Every sound, every laugh and murmur of
conversation, every clink of silver and china merges into a
single urgent battle-drum rhythm.

It’s no longer
whether
she’ll challenge the Grimsdens—
she knows she must—but rather
how
she’ll choose her
moment. And this is delicate. There is no doubt that
Father has heard the comment; she can see it in the flicker
of his eyes, the sudden stoop in his shoulders as he goes
back to cutting his meat; it’s not the hunched look of apology or guilt, but rather a stoical, bullish posture of one
who is used to bearing great weight without complaining.
Despite this, because he has already suffered so much, her
duty now is to answer the Grimsden woman without
involving him. And it has to be possible. She has to move
from her table eventually, and Evelyn can make her own
excuses to follow into the foyer before her father can
catch up.

This much she can plan. But then what? Various scenes
play out in rapid succession. She sees herself tugging at
the woman’s stole with one hand and slapping her across
the face with the other—a richly rewarding moment no
doubt, but one that would look utterly insane to those
who would inevitably bear witness to the act. She remembers also from childhood that a blow that seems clean-cut
and decisive upon conception, can become an ugly tangle
of limbs when the idea moves into reality. Isabelle Dryden
once said Evelyn’s friend Jessica, then nine years old, was
a “trollop.” After checking in the library dictionary for the
meaning of the word, Evelyn, who liked to be methodical
and organized, mapped out her moves as though arranging a duel: first she would call out the girl’s name and tell
her why she was being punished, then she would pause,
allowing Isabelle to defend herself, then she would strike
with her right hand across Isabelle’s left cheek. She went
through it so many times; she managed to convince
herself this was how it would unfold. But Isabelle did
defend herself, and somewhat better than Evelyn had
anticipated, beating her to the first blow. The two
descended into a heap of kicks and pinches and got them
selves into trouble when they reappeared in class with
mud on their clothes. She imagines now the equivalent
between herself and Mrs. Grimsden, the broken buttons,
the disarranged hair, the scattered pearls, and knows this
kind of revenge belongs decisively to the worlds either of
childhood or low comedy.

But Mrs. Grimsden, unlike Isabelle, would be a sitting
target. And the opportunity might come. Her own father
might excuse himself, freeing Evelyn to cross the restaurant floor to the Grimsdens. Words, she knows, would be
quite beyond her. This is the problem with anger and
injustice. It robs one entirely of the ability to construct
thoughts into logical argument. It turns one into a savage.
Even the modest accusation she managed against Isabelle
Dryden seems beyond her now. The only act she can imagine at the end of the ten- or twelve-pace walk to the
Grimsden table is the sudden picking up of a glass and the
throwing of the contents over Mrs. Grimsden’s head. Even
then her fury might make her aim unreliable.

She can envision the reaction, and in great detail: she
can see the surprised look on Agnes Grimsden’s face as
Evelyn appears before her. She can hear the gasp of
outrage and shock as the liquid sinks into her hair and
dribbles down her cheeks onto the table. She can imagine
Mrs. Grimsden calling to her husband, the stunned silence
that would overtake the room, the mute panic of the waiters, Mr. Grimsden standing in horror, perhaps throwing
his serviette onto the table but being utterly lost as to how
to respond as the assailant is, after all, a woman.

She would brave it all, she feels, even if it meant arrest
and trial, and is quite certain of her mettle in this respect.
It seems an incongruity, rather than a contradiction, that
she has been unable even to look in the direction of the
Grimsdens since hearing the comment. If she were to
catch sight of those small eyes, she thinks, the thin, still
rather handsome face of Agnes Grimsden, one of two
things would happen. She would either look away
suddenly—that most involuntary and fatal of gestures
would be unforgivable on its own account, and would sap
the courage and determination that had been building—
or the meeting of eyes would precipitate swift and urgent
action, whether it was the right moment or not.

The battle-drum rhythm turns into an ache of fear.
She’s afraid of disgracing herself in public by going too far,
but more afraid of dishonouring her father by not going
far enough.

Quite suddenly, a movement beyond the palm catches
her eye. She does look up now, and urgently, as the two
men at the Grimsden table and one of the women are
standing. What if they are leaving? A jolt goes through
her, not so violently that Father would notice, but it’s
enough to bring the battle rhythm back to her chest. Now
she sees the woman, Miranda, is merely excusing herself.
Mr. Grimsden and the young man resume their seats.

She watches Miranda Grimsden moving uneasily
down the aisle between the tables, head hanging, one
shoulder higher than the other as she grips her purse, like
someone with spinal problems, or perhaps someone trying
to be invisible—a shy butterfly just emerged from its
cocoon, too aware that the silken green of her dress is
drawing many eyes. It’s an imperfect opportunity.
Miranda is a secondary target at best, Evelyn thinks, as
she lays her knife and fork gently across her plate. But for
the time being it’s all she has.

“Excuse me, Father, ” she says with a smile as she rises.
Her father returns her smile, seems reassured by her softness at first, but she catches a look of anxiety just before
she turns.

As she follows, Evelyn sees patches of Miranda
through the bustle of waiters and sidecars. She notices her
head is less drooping, her shoulders less uneven, and now
knows for sure it was her father and herself that made her
feel cowed. The attendant opens the outer door to the
bathroom and Miranda goes through with a distracted-looking nod. The door closes again and Evelyn hesitates,
wondering what exactly she will say when she comes face
to face with Miranda Grimsden. She’s close enough now
for the attendant, a ginger-haired girl dressed in black
with a white apron, to register confusion about whether
she means to enter. It’s to satisfy the girl, rather than any
other consideration, that Evelyn presses on. Once through
the squeaking outer door, she finds the space is darker and
silent. An older lady attendant stands within the little
vestibule, waiting to open the inner door to the bathroom.
A shiver rises up Evelyn’s neck as this second attendant
reaches for the handle. The door makes no noise opening
and Evelyn comes into a blue-marbled space. Electric
lights create a steady wash of bright reflections. White,
gold-tapped sinks arch like swans’ necks in a line, and a
tuneful
blop, blop
of water echoes throughout the space.

At the far wall two attendants stand very still with
towels draped over their forearms. Miranda is at the
farthest sink, her purse nestling next to the tap. She stares
into the mirror, unscrewing her lipstick, but Evelyn can
tell her attention is elsewhere; her hands seem fidgety and
nervous, her bare arms rigid and blotchy even under the
blue light. The fact that she does not look around, makes
no motion at all about her shoulders to do so, confirms
that Miranda Grimsden knows who has followed her.

This is virgin water for Evelyn. She has no sense of the
protocols and procedures required, but finds herself
marching straight ahead past the first, second, third sink,
to the one directly adjacent to Miranda. She catches a
confused blink from one of the forward-staring attendants, and knows the atmosphere she has brought with
her is far from casual. It must be very obvious the two
customers are not from the same party, but that between
them lies a history. Evelyn lays her own purse next to the
tap and unclips its clasp. Staring at herself in the mirror,
she’s surprised at how little agitation she sees; the eyes in
the glass meet hers steadily, her hair is not disarranged
and the movement of her fingers as she takes out her
mascara betrays no visible tremors. She feels, rather than
sees, a tip of Miranda’s head in her direction like that of a
tortoise peeking over the ridge of its shell to assess some
danger. Only when she applies the first licks to her lashes
does Evelyn realize she has been holding her breath. Now
the air oozes out of her like the wind from a creaking
bellows, and she puts the mascara brush down, suspecting
nerves might spill over at last.

Evelyn catches the furtive beginnings of a turn from
Miranda Grimsden, suspects she may be on the verge of
slinking away, and knows that, to prevent her mission
from descending into futility and cowardice, she must do
or say something, and quickly.

“Miranda Grimsden, ” she says. Punctuated by the resonant
blop, blop
of water from the stalls behind them,
Evelyn’s words seem to have emerged without much effort
from some dreamy netherworld. The tone is commonplace, rich in the echoing chamber of the room, a touch
disparaging perhaps but not particularly accusing. Still,
she can feel the unnatural stillness beside her as she
replaces the mascara and roots aimlessly through the
contents of her purse with her fingertips. She has, at least,
prevented Miranda’s escape.

“Yes.”

The answer is an odd surprise, almost startling in fact.

“So, ” she says, having no idea at all how to continue.
Pantomime phrases push themselves into the front of her
mind:
We meet again
;
you thought you could escape me; we
have ways of dealing with the likes of you.
She’s suddenly
aware of the absurdity of following Miranda Grimsden to
the bathroom. They are no longer children, yet the only
logical reason for a confrontation would be to pressure
the girl to disown the letter she wrote to her father thirteen years ago. What a shameful admission, that the
ramblings of a ten-year-old invaded her family to such an
extent! Her face, still locked upon her own reflection,
burns at the thought. Thankfully the redness does not
show through the wash of blue light.

“I heard your mother, ” she merely says, taking herself
by surprise again.

She hears an intake of air, and turns her head far
enough to see Miranda’s arm frozen on her purse, her
head down, her eyelids flickering.

“I thought you would, ” she says.

It takes a moment to register that this is not an apology—everything about it, the tone, and posture says that
it is—and another moment to realize that she prefers this
to the conventional ‘sorry.’ There’s anticipation as well as
regret in
I thought you would
. It disarms Evelyn for a
moment, and deflates her too. It
is
absurd to have
followed Miranda Grimsden in here, the act of a nursery
battle that takes upon itself an argument between parents,
while the parents themselves remain oblivious and aloof.
But there is a purpose. In the barren ground of this meaningless, aborted conflict her arguments are forming with
perfect clarity and order. She is counting the fallacies that
became accepted truth: her father
did
help with the
lifeboats until his help was no longer needed or required;
he took
nobody’s
space as the lifeboat was already being
lowered; he asserted
no
pressure upon the captain to
increase his speed—this was the most oft repeated and
groundless of the accusations; her father had over and
over again warned against early arrivals as an inconvenience to passengers and merchants alike, who must then
scramble for either an extra night’s accommodations or a
warehouse for goods at the last moment.

And Evelyn can tie these falsehoods together with the
ribbon of an overarching truth, the reason for her father’s
misrepresentation. Once a man slips into the role of a
scapegoat, grief, infamy, and distortion will conspire to
weave every strand of evil intent from his supposed
actions. There is simply too much stray, unhappy energy
for it to be otherwise. It all has to find a home somewhere
and J. Bruce Ismay was the home.

All of these arguments could now easily be unburdened as she and Miranda Grimsden stand before the
mirrors, clicking and unclicking their purses and
compacts, raising and lowering lipsticks and mascara
brushes with the music of dripping water around them.
The sparse but telling communication between them thus
far has convinced Evelyn that the Grimsden girl would
merely listen and acquiesce. But what would be the point?
The enemy is elsewhere, carelessly and confidently sitting
in the dining room, saying what she pleases to
whomever’s ears can be reached.

Sensing the Grimsden girl shift—a slow, bovine movement from her shoulders as she picks up her purse—
Evelyn burns with fresh shame and annoyance. Her imagined eloquence, she knows, has merely been lured
forward by the timidity of her supposed opponent. If she
confronted the woman, Miranda’s mother, who has had
the boldness to gather all the vindictiveness levelled at
Father into that single sentence, she would be reduced to
grunts and blows.